I didn't even wait for ARIA to finish her analysis. My thumb was already speed-dialing Charlotte.
"Peter? What's—"
"We're going to Miami. Lincoln Heights Airport. Forty minutes. Don't ask questions, don't bring anyone else, and for the love of God don't fucking tell anyone."
"Peter, is this about the compa—"
"Forty minutes. Move."
Click. Call ended. Because in warfare, you don't waste time on Q&A. You compartmentalize. You control the narrative. And you sure as hell don't let an emotional heiress spiral into a TED Talk on feelings when the bullets are already flying.
I moved through my room like an algorithm designed for violence. Black pants. Dark gray henley. Boots that could sprint, kick, or stomp depending on the level of foreplay required. This wasn't a boardroom negotiation. This was a hunt.
Quantum earbud first—ARIA's invisible little miracle. Neural interface, thought-to-thought link, her voice whispering straight into my skull like a sexy ghost haunting only me.
