My stepmother thought I was broke, so she treated me like her personal baggage handler and laughed as she sent me to Economy

The cabin temperature felt as though it had dropped below freezing.

I didn't flinch. Six years of enduring her mockery, carrying her heavy trunks through rain-soaked aprons, and being shoved into the last row of Economy while she drank vintage Dom Pérignon had burned the instinct of fear out of my soul.

"I watched the Federal Marshals put zip-ties around your wrists in Geneva, Victoria," I said, my voice steady, level, and resonant enough to echo through the empty aisles of First Class. "Did Julian's offshore slush funds buy your bail, or did you crawl out through the sewer?"

Victoria turned her head slowly. Her face was paler than usual, her immaculate blonde chignon replaced by a sharp, practical bob. The bruises from Julian’s rough handling during our Alpine confrontation were still faintly visible beneath her foundation. Yet her eyes burned with the fanatical arrogance of a woman who believed she was untouchable.

"Julian was a greedy, short-sighted pig," Victoria said smoothly, waving a gloved hand dismissively. "He thought Northstar was worth a few billion dollars on Wall Street. He didn't understand that Northstar was never about the planes, or the routes, or the miserable commercial passengers stuffing peanuts into their mouths."

"Seat 1B was booked under an executive sovereign code," I noted, stepping forward and taking my place in Seat 1A. I settled into the plush seat, maintaining unyielding eye contact. "My father’s code. How did you get it?"

"Your father was a poet who thought he could outrun his debts with honor," Victoria sneered. "He built this fleet using our capital. The Sovereign Core financed Northstar thirty years ago, Emily. Your mother wasn't just a high-society heiress; she was the Core's chief archivist. When she realized what the fleet was actually designed to transport, she tried to run. And when your father hid her... well, you know what happened to his little Maine sanctuary."

The boarding door behind us slammed shut with a heavy, pressurized clunk.

The floor vibrated beneath our feet as the massive GE9X engines began their low, resonant spool-up. The six figures stationed at the galley curtains—men dressed in slate-grey tactical suits with earpieces—shifted their stances, their hands resting loosely at their waists.

"You're not in Geneva anymore, Victoria," I said, folding my hands over my lap. "You're aboard my flagship. This aircraft runs on sovereign protocols. If I trigger an emergency dump at ten thousand feet, every hatch on this bird opens, and you take a very cold drop into the Atlantic."

"You won't," she smiled, showing teeth. "Because you want to know what's waiting in Singapore. You want to know who is sitting in the hangar at Paya Lebar Air Base."

She leaned across the narrow divide of the aisle, her eyes narrowing into slits. "Your father didn't write that letter to save you, Emily. He wrote it to lure you out of New York. Because as long as you were behind Marcus and the DOJ, the Core couldn't touch you. But at forty thousand feet over international waters? You're just another missing heiress on a tragic flight that vanished from civilian radar."

The aircraft lurched forward, beginning its taxi toward Runway 31L.