The private jet hummed steadily through the clouds, its dim cabin washed in soft amber light.
The atmosphere inside, however, was anything but calm.
Hazel sat near the window with her headphones on, soft music playing calmly in her ears. Morning light spilled across the clouds beyond the glass, painting the endless sky in shades of gold and pale blue. Her eyes remained fixed outside, quietly watching the sunrise stretch beneath the wings of the jet.
Beside her, Fiona flipped lazily through a magazine, but every now and then, her gaze drifted across the cabin.
Toward him.
Manson sat at the far end beside Ryan, one arm resting against the leather armrest, his expression unreadable as he stared down at the untouched glass of whiskey in his hand.
Cold.
Silent.
Dangerously irritated.
Ryan leaned back in his seat and sighed dramatically.
"You know," he began casually, "I still can't believe you told Fiona to get her annoying face out of your sight."
Manson didn't react.
