The flight to Saha was smooth. Unfortunately.
She had been hoping for turbulence—something to mirror the fury currently anchored in her chest. But no. The sky was perfect. The tea was hot. The pilot was polite. And she was furious.
"Landing in twenty-eight minutes, ma'am," the steward said, bowing slightly, unaware that her silence was a blade honed over decades of diplomacy and vengeance.
"Lovely," she said, folding the napkin on her lap with the precision of someone imagining it was her grandson's ridiculous marriage certificate.
Her fingers twitched.
Trevor was going to suffer.
