Arion's phone began ringing twelve minutes after the aircraft cleared Alaminan airspace.
He had been expecting it much sooner.
The crown prince's jet had leveled above the clouds, its dark interior quiet beneath the muted engine vibration while morning light spilled through the narrow windows in pale bands. Victor occupied one of the seats farther forward with two tablets open across the table, already reviewing Claudia-related medical records as though the flight were merely an inconvenient extension of his office.
Arion sat opposite the window with his field coat discarded beside him and the physical crown-prince seal secured in the inner pocket of his travel case.
His phone vibrated again.
Dean.
Arion looked at the name for perhaps two seconds before accepting the call.
"I'm going to kill you when you return."
There was no greeting.
Arion settled deeper into the leather seat.
"Good morning."
"Do not good-morning me."
