"Can I get you anything else, Mr. Vance?" I asked, my voice polite, professional. The question was a formality. He was Silas Vance. A billionaire. Owner of this entire private jet. He had everything.

He sat in a leather armchair, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. The only other person on the flight was his pilot, locked in the cockpit, a wall away. It was just him and me. And the silence. The kind of silence that feels heavy and thick.

He was older. Forty-five, maybe fifty. His hair was silver at the temples, but his body was lean and hard under his expensive suit. His eyes, the...