Not much. Just enough to matter.
I keep my tone even. “I’m not here to order you around for the sake of it. I’m here because someone with access wants to harm you, and like it or not, you're the most vulnerable.”
Her expression changes instantly.
Cold and offended in a way that goes deeper than the annoyance she has been holding onto since I got here.
“The most vulnerable,” she repeats.
“Yes.”
Her laugh is short and humorless. “That’s a hell of a way to win my trust.”
“I’m not trying to flatter you,” I say. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”
Her chin lifts. “And you think telling me I’m the weakest target in my own family is the way to do that?”
“I think lying to you would be worse.”
That lands hard enough to make her go still again.
She holds my gaze, dark eyes flashing. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Not yet,” I say. “But I know enough.”
Her arms fold tighter across her chest. “Do you?”
“Yes.” I keep my voice level. “I know you live alone. I know your work puts you in front of more people than the rest of the family. I know your schedule is easier to track and anticipate. I know your house is closer to the city and, despite all the security, harder to lock down. I know you carry, but you’ve never had to use that weapon in a real-world situation. And I know that if somebody inside the family’s structure is feeding out information, then your routine is one of the easiest things to exploit.”
She doesn’t say anything right away.
Good. Because none of that is an insult, no matter how badly it rubs her.
It’s a risk profile.
When she finally speaks, her voice is quieter. More dangerous for it.
“So this is what my brother told you about me.”
“No,” I say. “This is what the situation told me about you.”
I lean back slightly in the chair and hold her eyes.
“You’re confusing vulnerability with weakness,” I say. “They’re not the same thing.”
Her jaw tightens. “And what's the difference?”
“Vulnerability is exposure,” I continue. “It’s access. Opportunity. Pattern. It’s where someone looking for an opening is most likely to find one. Weakness is something else.”
She stares at me for a beat, then says, “How convenient for you.”
“It’s not convenient,” I say. “It’s the truth.”
Her arms stay folded, but I can see the thought working behind her eyes now, the quick, sharp intelligence shifting through the offense and trying to decide whether I’m talking down to her or simply saying what no one else has said plainly enough.
I keep my tone even.
“The men in your family live the violent side of this life more directly than you do,” I say. “That gives them a different instinct for threat. Different experiences under pressure. That doesn’t make you incapable. It means your life has shaped you for something different.”
