The private jet touched down in New York just as the sun was reluctantly pulling itself over the skyline, casting long, frigid shadows across the tarmac.
The transition from the humid, fragrant warmth of Bali to the biting, metallic chill of a Manhattan winter was immediate and jarring. Ava stirred against my shoulder, her body having been a constant, familiar weight against mine for the ten-hour flight.
"Welcome back to the Citadel," she murmured, her voice thick with sleep. "Where the coffee is expensive and the stress is palpable."
I didn't answer right away. I was looking out the window at the familiar landscape, the high fences, the waiting black SUVs, the cold, powerful machinery of my empire.
I had spent two weeks dismantling the psychological walls I had built, and now I was faced with the physical ones. I had to ensure the exterior world didn't manage to rebuild the interior ones.
