The private jet tore through the clouds like a silver blade, sleek and purposeful against the endless stretch of blue. Inside, the cabin was a world apart—quiet, cocooned in opulence. Cream leather seats gleamed under the soft glow of ambient lighting, the faint scent of cedar and expensive cologne mingling in the air. A crystal decanter of scotch sat untouched on the polished table, trembling slightly with each subtle vibration of the engines.
Rafael Vexley sat by the window, motionless, his sharp features half-shadowed by the dim light. His grey eyes tracked the horizon—restless, calculating, but haunted. The reflection staring back at him wasn't that of a powerful man, but one caught between guilt and determination. Soon, he would have to put the mask back on—resume the charade of blindness he'd built to survive, to manipulate, to atone.
