The hum of the Gulfstream's engines was a constant, monotonous thrum that vibrated through the floor and up into the soles of my shoes. It was the sound of immense power and immense wealth, the sound of Charles Damien's world. Outside the window, the world was a blanket of thick, impenetrable clouds, a sterile, white void that erased the ground below. We were suspended between states, between countries, between truths.
Maya sat opposite me, a small, fragile figure swallowed by the cavernous luxury of the cabin. She hadn't spoken a word since we'd boarded. Leo, her son, was curled up beside her, his head resting on her lap, fast asleep, his breathing a soft, rhythmic sigh. He looked innocent. Peaceful. A child. But he was also a variable. A question mark. And in Charles's world, question marks were dangerous.
