The jet's ascent was a smooth, powerful climb, pressing me back into the plush leather of my seat. Outside the window, the city lights of my home bled into a sprawling tapestry of gold, then shrank into a meaningless constellation before being swallowed entirely by the vast, dark canvas of the night. We were leaving everything behind. The ground, the rules, the carefully constructed distance of the office. Up here, there was only the hum of the engines and the man sitting opposite me.
The cabin was a cocoon of hushed luxury, but it felt smaller than it was, a space defined not by its dimensions but by the force of Charles's presence. He hadn't spoken a word since we boarded. He had simply shed his suit jacket, loosened his tie, and opened a slim laptop. His focus was absolute, his fingers moving across the keyboard with a quiet, rhythmic precision. He was already in Paris, already fighting the Lacroix battle in his mind, and I was just cargo.
