The descent was smooth, almost too smooth for how fast we were dropping. Outside the window, the darkness thinned into a muted gray, then slowly gave way to the scattered glow of Paris below. The city didn't have the rigid order I was used to—its lights stretched unevenly, softer, almost careless, cut through by the dark curve of the Seine.
It looked beautiful.
I didn't come here to admire it.
Charles had remained locked in his work for the remainder of the flight, a silent, focused predator.
The tension from our encounter in the aisle had dissipated, but it hadn't vanished. It had simply been absorbed back into the atmosphere of the cabin, a latent charge that promised to erupt again.
I had spent the rest of the time forcing myself to breathe, to focus on the cold, hard facts of the Lacroix deal, to bury the traitorous warmth that still lingered under my skin from his nearness.
