I was so mad I could scream.
Not just at him. At myself. At my traitorous body. At the fact that even now, anger and desire tangled inside me like barbed wire and silk.
“No more of that,” I told my reflection faintly visible in the glass.
I was here for the story.
For the truth.
For the people who still believed it mattered—and for the girl from that small Canadian town who’d once clipped headlines and dreamed of making the world a little less full of lies.
4
LEVI
I'd never had a more comfortable plane ride.
The jet was sleek—all polished leather and dark wood, soft lighting that didn't strain the eyes, seats that reclined so far back they might as well have been beds. The crew was professional but silent, moving through the cabin like ghosts. They'd offered me water, a meal, a shower. Never once asked where I'd been or where I was going.
Smart.
I didn't press them for details. They didn't volunteer any. It was a dance we both knew the steps to.
The shower was the first thing I took advantage of. Hot water, actual pressure, soap that didn't smell like government-issue nothing. I stood under the spray longer than I needed to, washing Paris off my skin—the dust, the sweat, the metallic tang of Kittleton's apartment.
When I stepped out, there were fresh clothes waiting. Jeans, a plain black T-shirt, socks, boxers. All in my size.
Someone had done their homework.
I dressed, ran a towel through my hair, and padded barefoot back into the main cabin. The crew had set out a meal—steak, medium-rare, with roasted vegetables and mashed potatoes that looked homemade. A glass of red wine sat beside it, but I waved it off and asked for water instead.
"Of course, sir," the attendant said, her accent faintly British, and disappeared.
I ate slowly, methodically, letting my body settle. The steak was good. Better than good. The kind of meal that reminded you there was a world outside MREs and protein bars.
My routine was always the same when I traveled: get on the new time zone fast. No sense dragging out jet lag when you could just rip the bandaid off. Charleston was six hours behind Paris, which put us landing around eight in the morning, local time.
I'd sleep on the plane, wake up with the sunrise, and hit the ground ready.
After I finished eating, I found the bedroom at the back of the jet. King-sized bed, blackout shades, white sheets that felt like silk. I set an alarm for six a.m. Charleston time, stripped down to my boxers, and climbed in.
Out in seconds.
The alarm buzzed at six, and I woke clear-headed. No grogginess, no confusion. Just the sharp, immediate awareness that came from years of sleeping light.
I dressed, splashed water on my face, and headed back to the main cabin. The crew had breakfast waiting—bagel, cream cheese, lox. Coffee, black. Simple. Efficient.
"We'll be wheels down in two hours, sir," the attendant said.
I nodded, biting into the bagel. The lox was salty, the cream cheese smooth. I ate while staring out the window at the Atlantic stretching endlessly below, the sun climbing higher, turning the water from black to silver.
Two hours.
Two hours to figure out what the hell I was walking into.
We touched down at eight a.m. sharp.
The airport was small—private, corporate jets lined up like toys. No TSA, no crowds, just smooth tarmac and a driver waiting beside a car that made me do a double-take.
