Page 34 of Aviatrix

Figures.

Next photo: Rourke and Gina, pressed close together in a dark bar. Her hair’s shorter. Older photo, maybe. But there’s no mistaking the way they’re kissing, like no one’s watching. Like no one matters but them.

My throat stings.

How long has Lark known Gina? When did she start working for him?

I trusted him.

I thought we were solid. I thought we were…

No.

I won’t do this.

I won’t sit here and pick apart every memory, wondering what I missed. I won’t blame myself for the fact that he lied. That she lied.

This is on them.

And maybe on Rourke, too.

The rest of the photos spiral from there.

Gina and Rourke boarding a private jet. Gina and Rourke checking into a hotel. Gina and Rourke at a restaurant in Paris. Then, buried between the photos, an odd one. Jagged black rock on a desk under fluorescent light. It feels out of place, like it was slipped in by mistake.

Most of these photos are a trail of expensive rendezvous and poor decisions. I still don’t know how Rourke’s wife stays. Maybe she’s just as dirty. Maybe she’s afraid. Maybe she’s not even part of the equation anymore.

Then, I click on the next image.

A desk. Plain. Government-issued. But it’s what’s on top that stops my breath.

A manila folder. The kind of folder that holds secrets thick enough to end careers. Or start wars.

The label reads: PROJECT AVIATRIX.

My stomach plummets as dread creeps down my spine.

It’s not a word you hear anymore. Aviatrix. A title once used for female pilots a hundred years ago. Back when women in the sky were rare enough to need a separate term.

Now, we’re all just aviators.

Who the hell is still using that word?

This isn’t just an affair. This isn’t just betrayal. This is something else.

And I think I just found the edge of it.

“Project Aviatrix?” a voice says behind me, the words crisp, low, and laced with suspicion.

My heart freezes. Blood rushes to my ears. That voice. Commanding, and unmistakable.

I jolt so hard I nearly knock over the chair. My heart launches into my throat as I whip around and find Lark standing in the doorway. Silent. Composed. Not a single bead of sweat on him.

How long has he been there?

He steps forward, his gaze fixed on the monitor. He leans in slightly, scanning the screen like it might bite.

I press a hand to my chest, trying to calm my pulse. “How long have you been watching?”