Chapter two

Ethan's POV 

We arrive at the John F Kennedy airport at exactly thirty minutes past twelve. I bid Kayla and the pilot bye and Simmons and I head down to the private departure area, where I meet my mother waiting beside the limousine. 

Ever since I was born, people used to tell me that I looked very much more like my mother, than my dad. I didn't believe them. 

Until I grew up and saw reality for what it really is. 

She smiles as we approach, revealing dimples that refuse to erase even as she ages. I lean into her for a hug. She takes it further and pecks me on both sides of the cheek. 

"Hello, my pumpkin. How nice of you to honor my invitation." 

Sometimes I get ashamed that she still calls me the pet names from my childhood. But what can I do? 

"Hello, mother," I almost squirm under her embrace. "When you make it sound urgent like that on the phone, you tie my hands." 

"I didn't mean to make it seem like you didn't have a choice, Ethan. Of course, I knew that you'd be busy.' 

"But you had to make the call, anyway." 

She smiles benevolently and pats me on the chest. "All for something good." 

I nod. What the hell. Look past her shoulder. "You brought the limo." 

"Of course, I did. Did you think I would walk over here to welcome you?" 

"No, I didn't think so. But we've got a skeleton crew over here, and the limo over there looks way too much." 

My mother scoffs. "Please, don't be such a kill joy. How are you, Mr. Simmons?" 

"Never better, ma'am." 

"Let's get out of here," I move towards the car, and the chauffer alights from the driver side, salutes me, and runs around to get my door open. 

"Thank you, Simon." 

"Very much welcome, sir." 

We dump the Interstate roads, especially the I-878 and take the minor ones to the Eastern part of New York. The house looks like an estate. I remember when mom pushed me to buy it, regardless of my arguments that it is built too far away from the damn gate. 

"You own a tech company, my pumpkin, make the place look like an electronic city." 

So I did. 

The gate works with both finger print and face recognition scanners, fully automated, and very unfriendly to intruders, especially those who don't meet entry requirements. The avenue of trees are filled with sensitive CCTV cameras that see, record, and think, with a teeniest bit of Artificial Intelligence. Just the teeniest bit. Not the kind the Ukrainian wants. There is a fountain right in the middle of the compound, that doesn't just sprout water. There's an AI installed here too that automatically chooses to change the output from drinking water to laboratory produced acid rain, depending on who the hell is visiting. 

I think I'll stop here. It's one of the many reasons why I don't like coming here. For anything. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. Vacation. Taking the place to another level of technology makes it look so strange to me. Like I'm living in a fucking womb where everything gets dome for me, and I have to do nothing but lie down and suck on it. 

Just as Simon pulls the car to a stop, mom says, "Simmons, do you mind if I have a word with my son in private?" 

"No," he says, tersely, and excuses himself. 

I hear him whistling as he walks towards the door. 

"Before you ask me why I have called you here, I'll like to give you some heads up." 

"Thank you, mom. How kind of you." 

She ignores my sarcasm. "You haven't thought about marriage for a while, Ethan." 

"I know my personal life sucks big time, mom. But I'm trying." 

She rests a hand on my thigh and offers me an understanding smile. "I know, Ethan. And that's why I've decided to help you find someone. Actually, she's been found for you already. And she's sitting right inside waiting for you." 

Sophia's POV 

When people look at me, the first think that pops up in the recesses of their cognition is sassy. When they begin to know me, like we talk and rub minds, next thing they get going is that I'm an ambitious woman. 

Ambitious. 

I might be what they all say that I am, but one thing is as clear as day. I put the interests of others first, completely damning that cart before the horse anagram. 

Problem is, no one really gets to know me. Once they smell my determination to rise up in business and marketing, they begin to move away. Give me the distance. It happens all the time. Even where I work. Here. 

At Reynolds Enterprises. 

"Someone get the damn charts up," Magrioli shouts from the door of his open office. "I need to see how the pounds is performing against the dollar before the NFB." 

"Charts coming up in two, sir! You want me to log into our broker with a real account?" 

"No, are you insane? If I wanted you to drop a damn signal, I would definitely know how to express that in English." 

I know he's lying. Rumors have it that the man has been losing chunks of money with his broker, Litefinance. I have no idea if it is the company's money he's using as equity or some savings he feels like gambling away. If it's true, I wonder why he doesn't hire someone to manage his account, or better still, copy someone else's trades. 

None of my business anyway. 

I see the charts come up. Great Britain pounds is having the United States dollar for lunch this afternoon. Feasting like a shark. It's rising in green. 

"Bet something good comes out from this," Mag says. "Got some exports ready in four days. Sam, is there anything that might change this buy progress?" 

Sam studies the chart through his spectacles. The nerds always w 

ear one. What is that anyway? Some cult thingy?