The place was softly lit, the faint scent of vanilla and sandalwood hanging in the air.
As she dropped onto the couch and began unwrapping the sandwich, she looked up at him with a sly smile.
"So?" she asked, mouth already full.
"How'd it go? Did Nike pull out the golden contract?" she spoke, passing the remaining sandwiches to Izan.
Izan shrugged with practiced indifference, kicking off his shoes.
"You know. Talks. Nothing signed," he said, taking one of the wrappers.
She smirked, chewing.
"Right. And nothing in your eyes says you spent the evening being paraded like a prince in a bare-chested Saint Laurent tux."
He threw a cushion at her.
"You know too much."
.......
Seven Hours Later – 5:42 a.m., London Stansted Airport
The private jet hissed as it taxied to a halt on the rain-slicked runway, vapor curling around the landing gear.
