My stomach drops. The ground falls away beneath us and suddenly we're rising, tilting forward, and Idaho Falls spreads out below like a circuit board. Lights. Streets. Buildings getting smaller and smaller.
I press my face against the window.
The city shrinks. The darkness expands.
We're flying over nothing now. Mountains. Snow. Endless black punctuated by the occasional cluster of lights that might be a town or might be a ranch or might be nothing at all.
You're in a helicopter,my brain informs me, as if I've just woken from a dream and need the commentary.Flying to Wyoming. To sell your body to a stranger who will pay forty-four thousand dollars for twenty-four hours with you.
The helicopter banks left and my stomach lurches. I've got a death-grip on the armrests.
Below us, the world is dark and cold and completely indifferent to whether I live or die.
Just a few minutes later, a new cluster of lights appear below. Bigger than the scattered ranches we've been passing. More organized. Streets laid out in grids.
Jackson.
I press my face harder against the window, breath fogging the glass.
But the helicopter doesn't descend toward the town where the sun is just about to rise on the eastern edge. It banks left, following a valley that cuts deeper into the mountains. Away from civilization. Away from witnesses.
Of course. Because whatever happens next needs to happen where no one can hear you scream.
The lights below change. Not a town anymore. Something else.
A building. No,buildings. Multiple structures connected by covered walkways, all lit from within. Modern architecture mixed with rustic timber. Floor-to-ceiling windows glowing warm against the snow. A circular driveway. Landscaping that probably costs more than my entire education.
The Cheyenne Club.
It looks like a luxury ski resort. Like somewhere you'd take a romantic weekend with someone you're trying to impress. Not like—whatever this is.
The helicopter descends. My stomach rises into my throat. We're dropping fast, the building getting bigger, closer, and then we're hovering over a helipad marked with a giant illuminated X.
The skids touch down. Gentle. Barely a bump.
The rotors begin to slow.
I can't move.
Unbuckle your seatbelt, Scarletta. This is what you signed up for. This is?—
The door opens.
Cold air rushes in. A man in a dark suit stands in the opening, one hand extended toward me. White gloves. Perfect posture. He's probably fifty, graying at the temples, with the kind of face that doesn't smile but doesn't need to.
"Miss," he says. His voice is loud, but smooth. Professional. Like this is completely normal. "Welcome to the Cheyenne Club. I'm Mr. Fitzwilliam. If you'll allow me."
I stare at his hand.
He doesn't lower it.
My fingers fumble with the seatbelt. Four-point harness. Release. Click. Click. Click. Click.
I take his hand.
His grip is firm as he helps me stand, guides me toward the door. The wind hits immediately—freezing, sharp, stealing my breath. My shoes touch the helipad. Solid ground. I'm shaking.
Mr. Fitzwilliam's hand moves to my elbow. Not aggressive. Just—controlled. The way you'd guide a child who might bolt.
