Chapter 7 KATHERINE
KATHERINE
I wake before the alarm goes off. Not because I’m well-rested— far from it—but because my body has decided this is not a place where sleep should come easily.
The sounds outside the hotel room are unfamiliar and constant, bleeding through the walls even at this hour.
Distant horns, voices rising and falling in a language I’m not used to, and the low hum of a generator somewhere below—steady and relentless.
For a few disoriented seconds, I don’t remember where I am, then it all rushes back at once.
Mogadishu.
The hotel room feels too quiet in comparison, sealed off from the city with thick curtains and reinforced glass that doesn’t quite convince me it could withstand much if tested. I lie still, staring at the ceiling, heart beating a little too fast, and remind myself to breathe.
This is real. I’m here, and there’s no going back until my work is done.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and immediately regret it. The floor is cold, in contrast to the warm air despite the early hour. I rub my palms over my thighs, grounding myself, the way I always do when my thoughts start racing ahead of me.
You’re fine, Kate. You’re just interpreting. You’re not running into gunfire. You’re not negotiating ceasefires. You’re translating words.
Words, I can handle. I have to.
The bathroom mirror reflects a version of me that looks… smaller somehow. My eyes are too alert for how little sleep I got, my shoulders tense even as I try to relax them. I splash water on my face, grip the edge of the sink, and take a slow, deliberate breath.
I choose clothes carefully—nothing flashy or drawing attention. Comfortable slacks, a lightweight blouse that doesn’t cling, and shoes I can stand in all day without thinking about my feet. It feels like armor of a different kind, practical and unobtrusive.
When I step out into the hallway, Addison is already there, arm raised, ready to knock. She looks impossibly awake—hair pulled back neatly, outfit crisp and professional, eyes bright with anticipation instead of fear.
“Good morning, gorgeous. Are you ready?”
I blink at her. “For what?”
She grins. “History, diplomacy. A very long day.”
I laugh weakly. “You’re enjoying this.”
She doesn’t deny it. “I really am.”
And I get it. This is familiar terrain for her—controlled chaos, high stakes wrapped in procedure and security protocols. Compared to where she usually goes, this is practically civilized.
I follow her down to the lobby, my nerves buzzing louder with every step. The hotel is already active—journalists clustering in small groups, security moving with purpose, staff speaking quickly into radios.
The air is humming with anticipation when I spot him.
James stands near the entrance, camera strap slung across his chest, posture relaxed but alert. He looks exactly as he did yesterday—composed, unruffled, like he woke up already prepared for whatever the day might throw at him.
Something in my chest eases. I don’t question or analyze it. I just note the shift and move on.
He glances at us briefly, nods once in acknowledgment, then looks away. No tension or awkwardness, just quiet presence.
Addison leans in as we walk past him. “Thought you’d sneak into his room at night and continue what you started in LA,” she teases.
“Like I’d ever,” I scoff while she grins wider, wriggling her eyebrows at me.
The last thing I want to do is get tangled up with the mystery that is James, in a foreign country that’s one wrong move away from annihilation.
We grab breakfast from the buffet in the restaurant before heading out.
Outside, the heat wraps around us immediately, thicker than yesterday, the sun already climbing.
The vehicle waits at the curb, our chauffeur standing nearby, scanning the street.
He’s the same older gentleman from yesterday—quite nice—and after exchanging pleasantries, he ushers us into the backseat.
This time, Addison slides in next to me while James takes the front passenger seat. That’s a relief. I don’t think I can handle sitting next to him so early in the morning, especially when he keeps ignoring me like nothing happened between us.
As the car pulls away, I watch the hotel recede in the window and feel that same unsettling sense from yesterday settle in my stomach again. I don’t belong here, but Addison needs me. These talks need an interpreter, and somehow, despite everything, I’m here anyway.
I straighten my spine, square my shoulders, and prepare myself for the day ahead. Fear can wait, but right now, I have a job to do.
The venue is fortified in a way that makes my chest tighten the moment we arrive.
Concrete barriers, armed guards, and metal detectors layered on top of more metal detectors.
Badges are checked and rechecked, every step forward feels earned, like the building itself is suspicious of anyone who wants inside.
Addison barely blinks as we pass through security.
She’s done this so many times that this is muscle memory for her—hands up, bag open, patient smile, eyes already scanning the room beyond the checkpoint.
I follow her lead, clutching my badge like it might grant me courage by proximity. Inside, the air changes. It’s cooler, filtered, heavy with anticipation and something sharper beneath it. Tension, hope maybe—the fragile kind that breaks easily if handled wrong.
Delegates mill about in clusters, voices low, expressions guarded.
I hear Somali, Arabic, English, Swahili, French, German, Spanish, Mandarin, and other languages I can’t place weaving together in overlapping currents.
My brain kicks into gear automatically, sorting sounds, identifying cadence, and preparing to switch tracks at a moment’s notice.
This I can do.
I take my seat beside Addison at the long table, headset resting lightly around my neck for now.
My notebook is open in front of me, pen aligned carefully along the spine.
Across the room, cameras are already being set up, lenses trained on faces that carry the weight of entire regions on their shoulders.
James moves quietly along the perimeter, camera in hand.
He doesn’t hover or intrude. He simply exists where he needs to be—adjusting angles, checking light, watching everything without looking like he’s watching anything at all.
I don’t know why I notice it so clearly, but I do.
Every time I feel myself start to drift, to spiral, I catch sight of him in my peripheral vision—steady and unmoved—and my breathing evens out again.
It’s ridiculous to draw comfort from a man I barely know, but I can’t help it.
Addison leans over. “You good?”
I nod. “Yeah. Just… a lot.”
She smiles, soft but confident. “You’re going to do great. Just listen and translate. That’s it.”
Right. Listen and translate. I can do that.
The talks begin with formalities—opening statements, carefully chosen words delivered in practiced tones. I slip into the rhythm almost immediately, my voice becoming something separate from my thoughts as I translate, bridging gaps one sentence at a time.
This part feels almost peaceful. Language has rules, structure, and behaves if you respect it. There’s comfort in that, even here.
I catch myself leaning forward slightly as the conversation deepens, tracking nuance, adjusting phrasing to preserve intent rather than exact wording. A pause here matters, a softened verb there prevents offense. I’m hyper-aware of how much rests on tone alone.
Addison listens intently, occasionally scribbling notes, and meeting my eyes once in a while with a small nod of approval. She’s in her element—asking questions at the right moments, pushing just enough without crossing lines.
Watching her work is grounding. If she can do this, if this is her normal, then I can keep up. At least I hope I can.
We have a quick mid-morning break before getting back to it.
By the time lunch is called, I realize something important. I’m not panicking. I’m tired, alert, and aware of every exit and every unfamiliar sound, but I’m not falling apart.
As we stand, gathering our things, I catch James’s eye for the briefest moment. There’s no smile, no acknowledgment beyond a subtle stillness, like he’s taking stock and filing the information away.
I don’t know why that steadiness feels like reassurance, but it does, and for now, that’s enough.
Lunch is a strange, suspended thing.
We’re escorted to a secure dining area that feels deliberately neutral—no windows, no decoration beyond what’s strictly necessary, food laid out buffet-style, like comfort can be standardized if you try hard enough.
I pick at my plate more than I eat, my appetite dulled by adrenaline and the constant low-grade awareness humming through my veins.
Addison, of course, eats like this is just another Tuesday.
She balances her plate on one hand, chatting with another journalist while still somehow clocking everything happening in the room.
Her shoulders are loose, her laugh easy.
If anyone didn’t know better, they’d think she was attending a conference in Geneva instead of peace talks in a city that still carries fresh scars.
I sit beside her, grateful for the proximity, letting her normalcy bleed into me by osmosis.
“You’re doing really well,” she praises quietly, once the others drift out of earshot.
I raise a brow. “That sounded suspiciously like reassurance.”
“It was,” she admits. “You’re not freezing up. You’re not second-guessing every word. That’s half the battle.”
“I am absolutely second-guessing every word. I’m just doing it silently.”
She grins. “Progress.”
Across the room, James leans against the wall near the exit, camera resting at his side. He’s not eating. He’s not talking. He’s just… there. Watching the flow of people, tracking movement like it’s second nature.
I catch myself wondering what he sees through that lens of his. Not the polished version meant for headlines, but the micro-expressions, the tension in shoulders, the flicker of impatience that never quite reaches the mouth. He looks like someone who notices everything and reacts to almost nothing.
Addison follows my gaze and smirks. “You’re staring.”
“I am not.”
“You absolutely are,” she murmurs. “You look like you’re trying to solve a math problem using vibes.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Can we not?”
“Oh, we absolutely can,” she giggles cheerfully. “It’s the most interesting thing about today so far.”
I sigh. “Please don’t make this weird.”
She leans closer. “Too late. It’s already weird. You slept with him, didn’t get his real name, and now you’re working a high-stakes international event together like nothing happened. That’s not normal.”
“Neither is most of your life,” I counter.
She laughs. “Fair.”
The afternoon sessions start again shortly after. I slide back into place, headset on, focus narrowing as the room fills and voices rise. This block is heavier—more pointed questions, less ceremonial language. I feel the strain in my temples as I work to keep pace.
Hours pass like this, time compressing into something dense and exhausting. When the final break is called late in the afternoon, my shoulders ache and my throat is raw, but there’s a strange sense of accomplishment curling in my chest.
We didn’t mess this up. More like I didn’t mess this up, and for that I am proud of myself.
As people begin to file out, conversations shifting toward evening plans, Addison turns to me with a grimace. “So. The gala?”
I saw mention of a gala in the itinerary. Something meant to ease the tension and allow people to mingle and exchange fake laughs. I didn’t think Addison would want to drag me to this too.
My stomach drops. “Do we have to?”
She nods. “Yes, visibility matters, and I need you.”
I groan softly. “I am not emotionally prepared for formalwear in a place where I’m already overstimulated.”
She pats my arm. “You’ll survive. Besides, it’s not like you’ll be alone.”
Her eyes flick, just briefly, toward James. I open my mouth to protest, then close it again. He catches my eye across the room, expression unreadable as ever. There’s no invitation there. No expectation. Just quiet presence.
Maybe I can convince him to dance with me later on.
I draw a steadying breath. “Fine. But if I trip in front of a diplomat, I’m blaming you.”
She grins. “Deal.