The world was smaller up here.
Clean. Silent.
The jet shouldered through layers of white and gold, slicing the sky like silk on a blade.
Willow rested her temple against the oval window. Below them, the city dissolved into distance — wet streets turned to graphite lines, the river to a strip of dull metal. At this height, breathing came easier. Not lighter — just less crowded.
She traced a faint line in the condensation her breath left behind. A simple motion, repetitive and grounding. The kind one made when trying not to think too much.
Across from her, Victor read with one ankle hooked over a knee, a glass of something amber and expensive balanced in his hand. His sleeves were rolled, his tie abandoned, power worn like a second skin. His calm wasn't rehearsed — it was bone-deep. A man who never had to raise his voice to be obeyed.
She understood why people liked him — the calm, the competence, the quiet authority that never asked permission.
