A Soft Place to Land

Summer Knightly was halfway through arguing with a florist supplier over peony prices when her phone started vibrating violently in the cup holder beside her. She balanced the steering wheel with one hand as Sydney traffic crawled endlessly ahead of her. “If you increase the prices again, Daniel, I’m actually going to become a criminal.” The old supplier laughed through the speaker. “You say this every month.” “And one day I’ll mean it.” Another call flashed across the dashboard screen. Amara. Summer frowned immediately. Amara never called twice unless: someone was dying, the NGO website had crashed, or the United Nations had suddenly remembered their existence. “Daniel, hold on.” She switched calls quickly. “Amara? What happened?” Static crackled briefly before her co-founder’s voice burst through the speaker at full speed. “Summer, do not scream.” Summer immediately sat upright. “Why would you say that first?” “Because I know you.” That was fair. Summer turned into the narrow street leading toward the harbor district, bouquet boxes stacked carefully in the passenger seat. “Okay,” she said cautiously. “What happened?” A dramatic pause. Then- “We just got invited to the International Sustainability Summit in Geneva.” Summer blinked. The car nearly drifted slightly out of lane. “What?” “And before you ask—yes, that Geneva summit.” Summer’s mouth opened silently. “No.” “Yes.” “No.” “Yes.” “The Geneva summit?” “The actual one.” Summer pulled into a parking space so abruptly she almost forgot to breathe. The International Sustainability Summit was one of the largest global forums bringing together: diplomats, policy makers, corporations, NGOs, international organisations, and youth representatives. People spent years trying to get invited. “Amara—” “And,” Amara interrupted loudly, “they specifically requested you to deliver the closing remarks on the final day.” Silence. Complete silence. Then- “You’re lying.” “I’m looking at the invitation right now.” Summer pressed a hand over her mouth. “Oh my God.” “They said your speech in Copenhagen circulated among the summit committee.” Summer stared blankly through the windshield. The harbor water glittered under the afternoon sunlight outside. Her heart was pounding so hard it hurt. “You’re joking,” she whispered. “I am absolutely not joking.” Summer made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a squeal. At that exact moment, the client she was delivering flowers to approached the car. A woman in her late twenties wearing office clothes paused mid-step as Summer abruptly jumped out of the vehicle holding the bouquet. “Oh my God—” Summer breathed again. The client blinked. “Are you okay?” “We got invited to Geneva!” The poor woman looked startled. “...Congratulations?” Summer thrust the bouquet into her hands before suddenly throwing her arms around the woman in excitement. The client froze entirely. “Oh,” she said weakly. “This is happening.” “I’m sorry,” Summer laughed breathlessly as she pulled away. “I just... this is huge.” The woman stared at her for two seconds before laughing too. “Well now I feel emotionally invested.” Summer grinned brightly. That grin, warm and bright and impossible not to return, had always been her greatest weapon. She bounced once on the balls of her feet like an excited child. “Oh my God, Amara, we’re going to Geneva.” *** The next four days disappeared into absolute chaos. Summer thrived in chaos. Mostly. Her apartment looked like a diplomatic office, a fashion studio, and an airport terminal had violently collided. Garment bags hung from doors. Printed schedules covered the kitchen island. Flowers occupied nearly every available surface. Meanwhile, Summer sat cross-legged on the floor surrounded by open suitcases, speech drafts, conference files, and approximately seventeen sticky notes. “This is too much,” she announced dramatically. Amara looked up from the couch without sympathy. “You say that every time.” “And every time I’m correct.” Summer held up two dresses. “Reception dinner or cocktail networking event?” “The black one.” “That tells me nothing.” “The less wrinkled black one.” Summer narrowed her eyes. “Your support as a co-founder is inspiring.” Amara ignored her and continued scrolling through the summit attendee list on her tablet. “You should probably focus less on dresses and more on the guest list.” Summer dropped backward onto the carpet. “I have been focusing.” “You spent forty minutes deciding between heels.” “Diplomacy is built on presentation.” “You’re not a diplomat.” “Yet.” Amara snorted softly. That word always lingered around Summer quietly. Yet. Aspiring diplomat. Youth advocate. Policy speaker. Summer wanted to stand in rooms where decisions were made. Not just speak outside them hoping someone listened. Her eyes drifted toward the half-finished speech draft sitting nearby. The closing remarks. The final speech of the entire summit. No pressure. Absolutely none. *** The following days passed in a blur of preparation. Summer researched delegates, political leaders, corporate attendees, sustainability panels, reception schedules, security protocols, and side events. One evening she sat at the dining table wearing oversized glasses while scrolling through accommodation options on her laptop. “We should stay close to the venue,” she muttered. “Transport in Geneva during conference season is a nightmare.” Amara looked up from answering emails. “That’s already handled.” Summer paused. “What?” “The organisers covered accommodation and transport for all invited keynote representatives.” Summer blinked slowly. “Oh.” “They booked us into one of the Imperial Grand hotels.” Summer typed the name into her search bar. The hotel images appeared instantly. Elegant architecture. Private lake view. Ridiculously luxurious interiors. Summer stared. “…This place has chandelier lighting in the bathrooms.” “Focus.” “I am focused. Rich people are terrifying.” Amara rolled her eyes before tossing another printed guest profile toward her. “You should pay attention to this instead.” Summer caught the file. At the top: Imperial Group Below it sat several executive names. One immediately stood out. Levi Fernandez. Summer frowned slightly. The attached profile photo showed dark eyes, composed expression, expensive suit, and the kind of face that looked emotionally unavailable on purpose. Her gaze lowered. Former Spanish Special Forces Commander. “Oh,” she murmured. Amara immediately noticed her expression. “What?” “He looks like he says things like ‘secure the perimeter.’” Amara burst into laughter. Summer continued reading suspiciously. Executive Director. Fernandez family. The profile somehow managed to sound intimidating without even trying. “He looks exhausting.” “You haven’t met him.” “I can sense these things spiritually.” *** Geneva greeted them with cold air and polished silence. Summer stepped out of the airport terminal balancing her carry-on suitcase, handbag, conference folder, and coffee all at once. Amara walked beside her already irritated by international travel. “I hate airports.” “You hate people.” “That too.” Summer laughed softly as they moved through the crowded arrival hall. Everything felt elegant, expensive, and painfully organized. Geneva always looked like someone had professionally arranged the entire city. “Do we have the hotel transfer details?” Summer asked. Amara checked her phone. “The driver should be waiting near—” Summer accidentally collided with someone turning the corner. The impact jolted her coffee slightly. “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry—” The man she bumped into stepped back immediately, looking more annoyed than hurt. He was tall. Well-dressed despite casual clothes. Sharp features. Expensive watch. And apparently deeply offended by human interaction. “You should watch where you’re going,” he said flatly. Summer blinked. “Oh.” Beside her, Amara’s expression changed instantly. Excuse me?” The man looked unimpressed. “You heard me.” Summer grabbed Amara’s sleeve immediately. “It was an accident—” “No actually,” Amara snapped, stepping forward slightly, “normal people usually respond with ‘are you okay?’” The man’s eyebrow lifted. “And normal people usually pay attention while walking.” Summer closed her eyes briefly. Oh no. This was happening. “Amara,” she whispered urgently. “No, because why is he acting like we crashed a vehicle into him?” The man gave a short laugh lacking any amusement whatsoever. “I don’t have time for this.” “And yet you had time to be rude.” “Amara—” “Don’t ‘Amara’ me.” Summer wanted the floor to open and consume her. Nearby travelers had already begun glancing over curiously. Then another voice entered calmly. “What’s going on?” Summer turned automatically. A man approached from several feet away dressed entirely in black-black jeans, black t-shirt, black watch. Simple. Unremarkable. Yet somehow everyone near him shifted instinctively as he approached. Summer barely noticed. She was too busy trying to stop Amara from verbally fighting strangers in an international airport. The irritated man exhaled sharply. “Nothing important.” The man in black looked between them quietly. His gaze lingered briefly on Summer before returning to the situation. “Lione.” Just one word. A warning. Apparently the rude man’s name was Lione. Lione looked annoyed immediately. “She walked into me.” “And you survived,” Amara muttered. Summer nearly choked. The man in black rubbed the back of his neck once before sighing softly. “Forget it,” he said calmly. “We’re leaving.” Lione looked deeply unwilling to do that. Amara crossed her arms triumphantly. “Yes, you should.” Summer whispered helplessly, “Please stop talking.” Lione looked at them one final time before muttering: “…Sorry.” It sounded physically painful for him. Then he grabbed the man in black by the shoulder and stormed off. Amara stared after them in disbelief. “That was the worst apology I’ve ever heard.” Summer exhaled tiredly. “At least it was an apology.” “No. If I ever see him again, I’m charging him emotional compensation.” Summer laughed despite herself as they continued walking toward the hotel transfer area. Amara continued ranting the entire way. “He had the audacity to look offended.” “You did yell at him in three different accents.” “Because anger is international.” Summer shook her head smiling softly while Geneva’s cold evening air greeted them beyond the terminal doors. Somewhere ahead, city lights glittered beneath the darkening sky. And entirely unknown to her, the quiet man in black had already memorized her face.