The pilot's voice through the intercom died out, leaving a heavy, ringing silence in the cabin of the jet. Outside the window, the gray clouds of Illinois were parting, revealing the massive, jagged expanse of the Chicago skyline below.
I sat back in my leather seat, my eyes fixed on the blank screen of my laptop. My hands were perfectly still, but beneath the surface, the blood in my veins was running hot.
Mrs. Stanford.
The name repeated in my mind like a rhythmic chant, each syllable fueling a dark, quiet rage that I had spent years learning how to weaponize. She had sat at our table. She had smiled at my wife. , and then she had slinked into the shadows of the conservatory like a common thief to record a private conversation. She thought because she belonged to a prominent high-society family, she was insulated from the reach of the Sovereign. She was about to learn a very brutal lesson about the cost of meddling in Reed family business.
