Sophie rose at six on Saturday and spent two hours at the gym: one hour of cardio, one hour of weights. Then she meditated, no small task for someone as intense as she. But Anjali wouldn’t let her go into the field with sky-high blood pressure, and she had to find peace somehow.
She spent the afternoon running errands, then worked at home until midnight. As she did almost every night before she went to bed, Sophie picked up her phone, dialed Michael’s cell phone number, and listened to it ring.
“This is Dr. Michael Nariovsky-Trent. I regret that I have missed you. Please leave a message, and I will return your call.”
His voice left a dull ache in her chest as she clambered into bed. A picture of the two of them sat on the bedside table, a snapshot from the year they’d spent together more than a decade ago. They were on the bus, sleeping. Sophie lay against Michael’s chest, his arm curved protectively around her. She looked at the picture, swallowed her sleeping pill, then turned out the light.
Michael’s voice followed her into her dreams.
Chapter 2
Eleven years earlier
Sophie had spent all of her seventeen years being exceptional. But today, she was just one of many. After this year, she’d be one of a handful of people on earth who could add three prestigious letters after her name.
GYL
Global Youth Leadership was the world’s most exclusive private education opportunity. Every year for the last thirty-four years, thousands of young adults around the world endured a grueling marathon of applications, interviews, and testing. Only fifty would be invited to travel the world for 365 days of hands-on learning on all seven continents.
Participants in GYL were chosen not just for intelligence, but for their interest and involvement in world issues, leadership skills, and cultural awareness. Every student traveled on full scholarship, funded by public, private, and corporate donors. The program had produced seven world leaders in its history (including one US president) as well as countless CEOs and a couple of Nobel Prize winners.
Like all GYL scholars, Sophie was extraordinarily intelligent. High school valedictorian, Honorary National Merit Scholar, National Honor Society member – there wasn’t an award out there she hadn’t earned. She was California’s star in language, international affairs, and world history. A thoughtful young woman with a stubborn will and the ability to see things in remarkable new ways.
But meeting forty-nine other GYL scholars, ranging in age from 17 to 25, all as exceptional as she, daunted her. She scrunched down in her seat in the lecture hall of GYL headquarters, letting her straight red hair fall around her face. Grey eyes, fair skin, freckles, and a nicely curved body. At seventeen, Sophie had been accepted to GYL at the youngest possible age.
A professor called the students to order and talked about their four weeks in New York. They would live in their designated quarters as part of the Columbia University campus in Morningside Heights, Manhattan. The university tolerated the annual influx of young overachievers; GYL brought recognition … and more than its fair share of exceptional applicants once the year was over.
This four-week period was the “nesting” phase during which the students would get to know one another, work with academic counselors, and establish goals for the year. They met the staff that would travel with them, then one by one, the students introduced themselves to their classmates.
“I’m Sophie Swenda from Chico, California,” she said when called upon. “I’m seventeen years old. I’m interested in developing world issues and crisis management. I plan to pursue a career in international development after I finish college.” She rattled out her many achievements, conferences she’d been invited to, events she’d participated in.
“I speak four languages fluently: English, Spanish, Russian.” Sophie paused, and saw the three Soviet students – two boys and a girl – look at her with sudden interest. “I also speak Orlisian.”
A murmur ran through the room, and something clattered to the floor several rows back. She knew it was unusual – and ironic – for a Westerner to speak the native languages of two faraway countries that hated one another so bitterly.
“I’ve studied Orlisian history from unification through the Soviet occupation and the country’s subsequent liberation. The language is essentially a Latvian dialect but is evolving as the country matures. Orlisia has been an obsession for me since its inception. I was hoping it would be on our tour schedule.”
At the end, the teacher gestured to a lone student at the back of the lecture hall. Sophie caught her breath at the sight on him. He had a head of black curls, and stern green eyes under heavy eyebrows. She wondered what he looked like when he smiled. Lebanese? Israeli? His light complexion suggested otherwise. He rose, his expression guarded.
“My name is Michael Nariovsky-Trent.”