Maxwell's POV
The private jet flew through the clouds at thirty thousand feet, the morning sun streaming through the windows and glinting off the crystal glasses on the breakfast table.
I cut into my omelet with extra force, acutely aware of Kennedy's eyes boring into my forehead.
He'd been staring at me for the past ten minutes, barely touching his own food, just... watching. Analyzing. Reading me like one of his damn psychological profiles.
"Say what you want to say," I finally snapped, not looking up from my plate. "Staring at me won't provide answers."
Kennedy set down his fork carefully. "What is going on with you and my sister?"
I paused, my knife hovering over the omelet. Took a deep breath. Let it out slowly.
"Nothing."
"Maxwell." Kennedy's voice took on that sharp edge that meant he was done being patient. "Don't play that twisted game with me. Come clean. Now. While I'm asking nicely."
