ROXIE

The roaring hum of the twin-engine private jet felt like a continuous vibration inside my teeth.

I stared out the thick oval window of the cabin, watching the heavy gray blanket of the Atlantic storm clouds churn thousands of feet below us.

The New York skyline was long gone, replaced by an endless, dark horizon that felt completely droopy from reality. We were moving at five hundred miles per hour toward Germany, but inside the pressurized hull, the air felt completely stagnant—thick with the scent of leather, expensive fuel, and Garrison’s presence.

"You haven't touched your dinner, Roxie," a smooth, velvety voice noted from across the aisle.

Julian was...