The Vexley's private jet sliced through the clouds like a silver dagger — quiet, relentless — carrying Mirabel across the Atlantic with that calm, dangerous grace of someone who always gets what she wants. From up here London was a patchwork of light and history, the city where the missing pieces of her life had tucked themselves away. In the cabin's hush, she cradled a chilled flute of champagne, the bubbles catching the cabin light like small, impatient stars. Her nails tapped a slow, purposeful rhythm against the armrest; it was a sound that said she was thinking three moves ahead.
Lydia sat opposite, tablet glowing in her lap. She spoke without drama, the kind of voice that delivers bad news and makes it sound tidy. "Our contacts in London have confirmed Eliana's schedule. She's enrolled at the University of London, pursuing a degree in nursing—ironic, isn't it? Classes end at three today. We'll intercept her at the main gates."
