His lips pressed together.
Progress.
My phone buzzed.
SARAH: Aircraft clear. Luggage clear. Holding five more minutes while Daniel sweeps alternate approach. Assigned vehicle appears to be the exposed point. No active contact confirmed.
Sarah knew exactly what I would want.
Facts. Sequence. Current risk. No emotional garnish.
I typed back with my thumb.
ME: Thank you.
Then Nick’s name appeared.
NICK: You clear at the airstrip?
ME: Standing beside a charter aircraft while Victor attempts to develop a personality under pressure.
NICK: So yes.
ME: So yes.
A pause.
NICK: Sofia has opinions about what I should wear to Homecoming.
The shift almost unbalanced me.
I stood on a South African airstrip with rangers checking sight lines and luggage seams while a fourteen-year-old in Virginia rendered fashion judgment from another continent.
Life was rude.
ME: Sensible child.
NICK: She says not ranger beige. Apparently I’ll look like a divorced safari substitute teacher.
The laugh caught me off guard, real enough to hurt.
Naomi glanced over.
I turned slightly away from the group and pressed the phone to my mouth, as if that could hide evidence. It couldn't. I was a CEO, not a magician.
Nick called a second later.
“She gets that from her mother,” he said when I answered.
His voice had changed. Not relaxed. Nick Mercer probably considered relaxation a security vulnerability. But something warmer moved beneath the clipped edges.
“No,” I said.
“No?”
“That level of surgical insult wrapped in practical wardrobe guidance?” I looked toward Cufflink, who had cornered a staff member near the luggage table. “That is absolutely yours.”
Nick said nothing.
