“You’ve maintained the highest grades in your year,” another pause. “You’ve somehow completed coursework most first-year undergraduates struggle with.”
My heartbeat starts doing strange things.
“You’ve attended every Oxford lecture available online.”
Okay. That’s definitely too much.
He leans back. “For months, I thought this was just a teenage phase.”
I immediately feel offended. “It wasn’t.”
His expression softens. “And that’s the problem here.”
For the first time since entering the office, I don’t have a response to any of this.
Suddenly, this conversation isn’t about Oxford anymore. It’s about him acknowledging I’m really serious.
“If I agree,” he starts carefully after a long silence, “you’re not coming home after two weeks because you’re feeling homesick and lonely.”
Is it really happening? “I won’t.”
“You’re not changing your mind six months later.”
Yes, it is! “I won’t.”
“You’re earning your place there. Not buying it.”
“Well, you should know that by now.”
“You won’t be officially managing CynoTech from England, but I’ll have Adrian delegate part of his workload to you. Consider it a trial run.”
I almost regret what I said on impulse, but it sounds doable.
“And if I agree,” a pause, he studies me for a beat, and finally sighs. “You’re not getting into any trouble.”
I straighten immediately. “Got it,” I manage to say firmly.
Then slowly, with much reluctance, like a man signing away something precious, he says with a huff. “Okay. You’re going to Oxford University.”
I stop breathing even though my lips part. Internally, I’m squeaking, screaming, and jumping until his gaze hardens before the excitement can fully hit me outwardly.
“Don’t celebrate yet. There are conditions.”
My stomach drops. Of course there are.
“You’ll attend self-defense training.”
I blink. “Eh?”
“And I’ll assign you some bodyguards.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s mandatory.”
I open my mouth.
He raises an eyebrow, challenging me to argue and give him a solid reason to dismiss it for good.