But this ismyproject. My grandmother’s legacy. My money funding every aspect of this operation.
She needs to remember that.
The storm rages on. Minutes crawl by. Georgia’s lullaby eventually soothes Ella into hiccuping quiet, then sleep. The toddler’s head lolls against the car seat, her cheeks still flushed and tear-stained.
Khalid works silently with the navigation system, checking and rechecking coordinates, boosting signals. After what feels like hours but is probably only forty minutes, the storm begins to ease. The brown wall of sand thins, then breaks. Visibility improves from only inches to yards, and then suddenly the whole landscape is back.
“We’re good,” Khalid announces quietly, mindful of sleeping Ella. “GPS is back online. I’ve got the coordinates locked in.”
“How far?” I ask, matching his volume.
“About two hours at safe speed. The storm will have changed the terrain slightly, covered some tracks, revealed others. We need to go carefully.”
We start moving again, and I watch the desert roll past. It looks different post-storm. The sand patterns have shifted, creating new dunes, erasing old ones. It’s beautiful and alien—and completely indifferent to human plans.
Ella sleeps on, exhausted from her fear. Georgia sits staring out the window with her hand on her daughter’s leg, protective even in the child’s sleep.
I should apologize. Or at least acknowledge that maybe I was overreacting.
But I don’t.
Because if this is how she treats me in front of the team after one day, what will the next six months look like? Constant challenges to my authority? Public disagreements? Her expertise wielded like a weapon every time I try to move things forward?
The thought exhausts me.
But there’s something else, underneath the irritation. Something I don’t want to examine too closely. And it’s that she wasn’t wrong. I was losing control. I was letting my anxiety about the project, about living up to my grandmother’s memory, about proving my father wrong, get ahold of me until I was no longer in charge.
And she saw my freakout and called it out. Shut it down.
Like an adult.
The phrase stung because it’s accurate. I was acting like a child denied a toy, not a professional managing a complex operation.
I hate that she was right, but I hate even more that everyone else knew she was right.
“Another hour,” Khalid says softly, reading my mind or possibly just checking the GPS. “We’ll be there before noon.”
“Good,” I manage, and focus on the horizon.
This is not how I envisioned this project starting. But then again, nothing about the past twenty-four hours has gone according to plan.
Welcome to the desert. Where control is an illusion and even the weather has opinions about your schedule.
I close my eyes and try to center myself. We’re almost there. Once we reach camp, once we start actual work, things will stabilize. Structure will return. I’ll prove myself capable, and Georgia will see that I’m not just some random rich guy playing at archaeology.
I’ll prove her wrong. Because it’s important to me… Even when it probably shouldn’t be.
CHAPTER 7
GEORGIA
When we finally crest the last dune and the camp comes into view, my breath catches.
It’s just tents. That’s all. A cluster of sand-colored canvas structures arranged in a rough semicircle, with a larger central tent that must be for dining and meetings. Solar panels glint in the sun. A generator powers it all. There are supply crates stacked under tarps, a cooking area with propane tanks, portable toilets discreetly positioned at a distance.
It’s organized. Well-equipped. Exactly what I’d expect from a well-funded operation. But it’s also utterly, completely isolated.
There’s nothing else. No buildings on the horizon. No roads except the tire tracks we just made. No power lines or cell towers or any other sign of human civilization. Just sand and rock and endless sky in every direction.
