Thursday night. 9:00 PM.
I was in my dorm, ironing the shirt for tomorrow's dinner with Elena. The steam hissed, filling the small room with the smell of starch and anxiety.
My phone buzzed on the desk.
Sofia: Flight to London delayed. Mechanical issue. I have three hours before the private jet is cleared.
I stopped ironing.
Me: That sucks. You stuck at the airport?
Sofia: No. I'm at the penthouse. The car is waiting downstairs. Come over.
Me: Now?
Sofia: Now. I need to burn off some energy. And I hate sleeping on planes without a proper send-off.
I didn't hesitate. I unplugged the iron, grabbed my jacket, and ran.
When I got to the penthouse, the door was unlocked.
Sofia was standing by the window, looking out at the city rain. She was dressed for travel—a sleek black trench coat over a cashmere sweater and leggings—but the tension in her shoulders was palpable. She was pacing, her phone in one hand, a glass of whiskey in the other.
