Outside the window, the world was a blinding, endless tapestry of soft white blankets. At forty thousand feet, the clouds stretched toward the horizon like a calm ocean, the peaks of the vapor catching the sun until they looked like polished marble. Cutting through this stillness was the sleek, silver needle of the Kane family Gulfstream, its engines a distant, powerful purr that seemed to command the very air it moved through.
The interior of the plane was the zenith of excess. Beyond the main cabin lay a master bedroom suite wrapped in Venzor cotton and a rain shower that allowed you to forget you were forty thousand feet above the ground. In the galley, a private chef worked in silence. The air hostesses moved with practiced grace, dressed in tailored, cream-colored wool blazers and skirts. Pinned to every lapel was a solid gold eagle brooch—the Kane family insignia—clutching its prey in razor-sharp talons.
At the center of the opulence was Vivian, seated in plush leather designed for fifty but occupied only by her. Large Oak noise-canceling headphones hugged her ears, sealing her into a world of corporate logistics. On the mahogany table before her sat a sprawling charcuterie board: ripples of prosciutto, aged manchego, a mound of black caviar, and a bottle of vintage champagne sweating in a silver V.K.-embossed ice bucket.
Vivian reached out, her fingers mindlessly plucking a single grape as she scrolled through a dense thread of internal memos from KCV Carriers Group. The sender was Eleanor Kane, her paternal grandmother. Vivian took one small sip of the champagne before setting the glass down, her focus never breaking from the screen.
Trish's voice consumed the cabin as she spoke to its lone passenger—something she'd become quite accustomed to as Vivian's personal pilot. "Good morning, Ms. Kane. We've begun our descent into Luvia. Local time is 10:38 a.m."
An air hostess appeared silently to clear the table. She lifted the near-untouched feast, her eyes lingering for a fraction of a second on the pile of caviar. Behind the partition, the woman dumped the expensive spread directly into a trash bin with a look of sharp, weary annoyance. She had been trained never to take what was not offered, even if it was bound for the trash.
When the wheels kissed the private runway, Vivian stood and walked toward the door. A lifetime of intuitive care didn't allow her to think of the possibility of forgetting anything.
"We hope we met your every expectation, Ms. Kane," the hostess said, bowing her head slightly.
"Everything was great. Thank you," Vivian replied. At the bottom of the stairs, she paused to wave at the cockpit window. Trisha was the first pilot her parents had ever given her; she'd been with Vivian since she was ten years old.
Mr. Smart stood by the rear door of a black town car. "Good morning, Ms. Kane.
Welcome back to Luvia."
"Hello, Travis. Good to see you," Vivian replied, sliding into the cool interior. Behind her, the hostess hurried down the plane steps with Vivian's belongings and placed them in the trunk. It was common knowledge that Miss Kane always forgot her belongings wherever she went.
As they pulled away, three security SUVs fell into formation. Mr. Smart glanced in his rearview mirror at a fourth vehicle, a silver sedan. The family office had already informed them of the Westbrooks' tail. Travis hadn't mentioned it to Vivian, though she never asked about the shadows that followed her.
"The penthouse first, or straight to your brunch, Ms. Kane?" He watched her through the rearview mirror, marveling at how much she'd grown. The first time she got into his car, she was nine years old—a tiny little thing that barely spoke a word.
"The penthouse. I need to change." She sighed as she looked out the passenger window. She loved the art of Luvia. It was known for its fashion and overall artistry—something you truly couldn't experience in Omak.
When they arrived at the building, Vivian walked past every security check and guard without a glance. Travis moved ahead of her, using a master key pass to bypass the lobby and call the elevator. He tapped the card again for the penthouse floor, resting her travel bag at her feet before handing the key card to her. "I'll be downstairs whenever you're ready."
The elevator opened directly into the penthouse. Vivian stepped out and walked straight into the living room, dropping her travel bag haphazardly on the floor beside the glass coffee table. Her eyes immediately snagged on a chip in the corner of the glass.
"Odd," she thought aloud. It was rare to see something damaged in any of her homes. She lingered on it for a second, her lips thinning into a faint frown of disapproval, before walking away to shower.
She emerged with her skin warm and glowing, her hair pulled into a sleek, perfect ponytail. She stepped into the walk-in closet—a cavernous room filled with rows of designer bags and jewelry—and noticed her travel bag was already tucked neatly into a cubby. She picked out a simple custom loungewear set to wear for the rest of the day, the cozy cream jumper soft against her skin.
Walking back into the living area, she saw the glass coffee table had been replaced. The new one was flawless. It was impressive how quickly the staff could fix any mistake while remaining completely out of sight.
She grabbed a bowl of pre-made oatmeal from the fridge and sat at the kitchen island, pulling her laptop toward her. She dove back into the emails from Grandma Eleanor. The memos detailed a government contract bid for deep-sea freight lanes, multi-billion dollar logistics. One document, however, intrigued her: Project Cobalt. It was a collaborative project, but even in her grandmother's version, the partner company's name was redacted.
Vivian stared at the black bar on the screen. Why would a board member's minutes be redacted? Her curiosity pinged, but the vibration of her phone on the counter interrupted her.
Travis Smart: If we wish to keep schedule, we should depart in five.
Vivian: Kk
Abandoning her work for the moment, she left the penthouse. As the heavy door clicked shut behind her, three staff members scrambled into the living room, wiping sweat from their brows as they hoisted the chipped table to haul it toward the service exit.
"How could she even see such a minuscule chip?"
"Do you think we'll all be fired?"
"Shh, just move quicker. The broken coffee table should be gone before Miss Kane returns."
Away from the fretting staff, she continued the remaining block and a half to the cafe on foot, enjoying the smell of fresh bread and rich chocolate. In Omak, she was far too recognizable, but here, the cool breeze felt like freedom. As she walked, her phone chimed.
Carrie: OMG. What is happening between you and GUNNER? Where the hell are you? I need to know everything!
Vivian slowed her pace, a dry chuckle escaping her as she passed a man with a discreet earpiece—the security her family paid to surround her, always within arm's length.
Vivian: Luvia. Flying back tonight.
Vivian: He was drunk. Nothing more!
Carrie: Haha! Yeah right. I know Gunner. He is a control freak, even when he's drunk. Stay with me when you're back in town. I demand the tea. LMAO
Vivian smiled, sliding the phone into her pocket as she reached the sun-drenched patio. Up ahead, Sara bounced on the balls of her feet, waving a ring-clad finger the moment she saw her.
"V!" Sara squealed, jumping out of her chair and rushing over. Before Vivian could say a word, Sara had her phone out, pulling Vivian into a tight side-hug for a selfie. "You have great skin!" she chirped, tilting her head to find her best angle. "This is perfect! The sun! Stay right there!"
The shutter clicked. In the photo, Vivian was caught mid-chuckle, looking relaxed and natural, while Sara looked far more Vogue.
"Aww, we look great! Sit, sit, sit!" Sara ushered her to the table, looking Vivian over from head to toe. "You look so cute." Somehow, Vivian always managed to look presentable in athleisure.
Sara, predictably, was dressed in high designer fashion. Since her engagement, she had opted for wearing white most days—a visual reminder to the world that she would soon be a wife. Smoothing her silk chiffon strapless dress, Sara sat down and immediately thrust her left hand toward Vivian.
"Can you believe it? It finally happened!" she squealed, tucking her long black hair behind her ears.
A handsome young man in a white polo and black trousers dropped off two matcha lattes and a platter of assorted gourmet pastries. While Sara waited for Vivian to respond, she caught her reflection in the large cafe window beside them. She began adjusting her hair, preening unselfconsciously. Inside the cafe, a man sitting at the table directly opposite the glass froze. He watched Sara for a second before awkwardly, slowly turning his back toward the window. Vivian watched the exchange, finding Sara's lack of a filter authentically charming. Sara didn't pretend to be anything other than what she was.
"Again, congratulations. I'm so happy for you and Jae," Vivian said, resting her cheek in one hand while the other rested underneath Sara's to examine the rock on her finger.
"Thank you! You're one of the first people to congratulate me, which is why... would you be one of my bridesmaids?"
Vivian's eyebrows shot up toward her hairline. She hadn't expected to be part of the bridal party.
"If you're worried about cost, don't," Sara added quickly, noticing the hesitation. "My parents are footing the bill on everything."
Vivian's shoulders shook as she stifled a laugh. This was the first time in her life someone had worried about her financial stability. She had never told Sara that her family was wealthier than Sara's and her fiancé's combined, but she found the generosity endearing.
"I would be honored to be a bridesmaid. Wherever, whenever—I'll be there," Vivian promised, squeezing Sara's hand. "But don't worry about the cost. I will pay my way."
Sara's forehead creased with a lingering worry. She leaned in, lowering her voice. "Just tell me if it gets to be too much."
"I will."
Sara let out a massive, relieved sigh.
"Anyway! Enough about me! What are you up to? Have you landed at a company yet?"
"You know me, always finding myself," Vivian said. It wasn't entirely a lie; she had about a year left of this sabbatical before her family forced her onto the curated path they had created.
It was free-spirited sentiments like these—when Vivian would say something outrageous—that made Sara feel as if Vivian were a trust fund baby like herself. Only the rich went to wander around the world trying to find themselves; the poor normally worked. And even though Vivian dressed in clothing that didn't scream designer, everything was tailor-made for her. Her mother could be a seamstress, Sara thought. Vivian didn't mention her family often, so Sara believed it to be a topic that was off-limits. It was quite possible that her father was a heroin addict and V had been surviving off of sugar daddies.
Sara's phone buzzed on the table, interrupting the thought. Vivian caught a glimpse of the phone case—a professional engagement photo of Sara and Jae looking radiant. Sara glanced at the screen and groaned dramatically, though she couldn't hide her smile.
"He is actually ridiculous," Sara laughed. "He can't stay away for five minutes. He's already wondered when I'm coming home. I bet the house feels empty without me!" She immediately picked up her matcha, pressed it to her lips, and snapped a pouty selfie to send back to him.
Sliding the phone away, she looked back at Vivian. "Sorry, V. Where were we?"
"What about you?" Vivian asked, steering the conversation back. "The last time we spoke, you said you had dived into the art world."
"It's so rewarding," Sara replied. "I've finally climbed into the world of multidisciplinary artistry, though art itself is my true calling. In all forms. Recently, I've narrowed down my field of expertise to have an emphasis on art advocacy. It's why I'm still here. The light here is just so honest in Luvia."
This was one of the things that Vivian liked most about Sara. She was earnest. Her words might be utter nonsense—a word salad of what she believed to be intelligent-sounding, regurgitated drivel—but Vivian wasn't judging her for it. She had been around one too many boastful types, especially among the next generation of elites. She knew they all tended to be hobbyists, especially when they lacked the talent to pursue their career of choice.
"It sounds like a very enriching pursuit," Vivian said, biting into a pastry. "I'm glad you found success." The taste of vanilla saffron custard melted beautifully on her tongue.
Sara gave a nervous little chuckle. She didn't want to admit she had only received commissions from family friends so far, but she was sure her art would take off with enough time. "I wish I could give every moment to my craft, but with the wedding coming up, I have to prioritize my fiancé."
"So give me the rundown. What should I expect? Two and a half, three months until the big day?"
"Two months, four days. We're in the sprint! As the invitation said, we're getting married in Vensor, in Exton Province. A beautiful castle—you'll love it. I'll need you at the rehearsal dinner a week before, and the bachelorette party is on the 14th of next month. Mark it in the calendar—"
Standing in the window of a pizzeria across the street, his elbows leaning against the petite ledge, Fletcher aimed his phone. The focus box on the screen pulsed, perfectly centered on Vivian Kane's face.
"What is she even doing in Luvia?" a stern, deep voice asked through his earbud.
The tone of the man on the other line made Fletcher's body stiffen with learned terror.