The vast expanse of the hangar felt more like a cathedral dedicated to the gods of aviation than a storage facility. Rows of sleek, weapons-grade helicopters replaced the usual bulk of fixed-wing planes, their rotors frozen in mid-air like the wings of giant insects.
Charlotte Kane moved through the space with the practiced grace of a woman who owned every inch of ground her six-inch heels struck. Her white-gray bob was tucked neatly behind her ears, sharp and clinical. She trailed a hand along the fuselage of a nearby craft, her fingers lingering on the ergonomic curves as if she were appraising the grain of a luxury leather handbag. She was hunting—not for utility, but for the perfect offering to secure her future son-in-law's loyalty.
Beside her, Evelyn Castle provided a softer silhouette, though her presence was no less formidable. Her gray hair cascaded in waves down to the small of her back, a silver mantle that shimmered under the high-intensity LED rafters. Large black sunglasses shielded her eyes, leaving her expression unreadable as her own heels clicked a rhythmic, metallic staccato against the concrete.
"Are you in need of a new helicopter?" Evelyn asked, her gaze sweeping over the nooks and crannies of a four-passenger model with the keen eye of a structural engineer.
"Not truly. I just felt like shopping," Charlotte lied. The words tasted smooth, practiced. She couldn't breathe a word of the upcoming nuptials—not until the contracts were signed, sealed, and buried in a vault. To speak of it now was to invite the universe to sabotage it.
She moved past a particularly garish model, its electric purple paint job a jarring eyesore against the industrial gray of the hangar. "Do you ever think about remarrying?" Charlotte asked, her tone conversational, yet heavy.
"Oh goodness, never!" Evelyn laughed, a sound like crystal clinking. "My husband was delightful, as all men can be—in small doses. But I have grown quite contented in my solitude."
Charlotte stopped before a six-seater, her reflection ghosting in the tinted glass. "I find myself wondering more and more if I'd prefer to be a widow or a divorcee."
"God forbid," Evelyn countered smoothly. "The stigma, darling. Always a widow, never a shrew."
The two women laughed. It was a hollow, expensive sound that didn't quite reach the rafters.
"So true," Charlotte sighed, moving on. "Unfortunately, Conrad is in exceptional health."
"I'm so sorry, Char," Evelyn said, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial register. "And the newest mistress? Is she at least quiet? Polite, even?"
"She's positively vulgar," Charlotte snapped, the mask slipping for a fraction of a second. Only with Evelyn could she be this unvarnished. "The cow actually had the nerve to speak to me as if we were equals. It was disgusting. If I still had the energy of my youth, I would destroy her life."
Evelyn tilted her head, a smirk playing on her lips. "You definitely have softened. Do you remember that one woman Conrad had a fling with? The one with the huge beauty mark on her jawline?"
"Yes," Charlotte narrowed her eyes. "I think I nicknamed her Shrek."
"That's the one! I remember when you filled her entire apartment with roaches and lizards. The poor lamb nearly had a heart attack. You really had so much whimsy back then."
Charlotte chuckled quietly, the memory flickering like an old film reel. She had been wild once—unpredictable and dangerous. "Whimsy is for the young," she chided gently. "My hair isn't even brown anymore. Women with gray hair like ours do not get to be whimsical."
"Speak for yourself," Evelyn laughed, hooking her arm through Charlotte's and steering her toward the back of the hangar. She pointed a manicured finger at a towering eight-passenger craft. It was a masterpiece of engineering: a matte-black exterior, chrome finishes, and a silhouette that whispered of silent, high-altitude escapes. "Would that do? It's the new model."
Charlotte didn't hesitate. She didn't even look back at the salesman, who had been trailing them at a respectful, terrified distance. She simply raised a hand and pointed.
"I'll take it."
"Good," Evelyn said, already turning Charlotte toward the exit. "Come, I'll buy us lunch. I think we've had enough of machines for one morning."
The heavy hangar doors slid open, and the transition was jarring. The quiet, sterile air of the aviation cathedral was instantly replaced by the low, synchronized hum of a private army.
Charlotte stepped out onto the tarmac and paused, unable to suppress a flicker of genuine marvel. Evelyn didn't just travel; she moved like a sovereign state in transit. Stationed with practiced precision was an entourage that would put a head of state to shame. There were thirty security guards in charcoal suits, their earpieces glinting in the sun; a gaggle of lawyers clutching encrypted tablets; a private physician; two media liaisons; and a personal assistant who stood poised with a silver tray as if waiting for the world to end just to offer Evelyn a napkin.
Charlotte looked at her friend. The name Castle wasn't just a family name; it was a description of her reality. Evelyn didn't just live in a fortress—she was the queen inside of it, buffered from the common world by layers of human shields and intellectual armor.
"Your fleet is looking particularly sharp today, Evie," Charlotte remarked.
"Efficiency is the only true luxury left," Evelyn replied airily, gesturing toward their transport.
Waiting for them was a vehicle that looked less like a car and more like a high-end, military-grade tank. It was a matte-black beast of a machine, armored and imposing, with the aggressive stance of a combat vehicle but the interior of a Maybach. They climbed into the back, the door closing with a heavy, pressurized thud that silenced the world outside.
The drive to Springbrook's downtown core was swift. As they approached the local bistro, the usual lunchtime bustle of the city was missing, having been surgically removed. Concrete barricades and local police cruisers—likely incentivized by the Castle estate—blocked off the entire street. An officer signaled a salute, pulling a barricade aside to let the armored vehicle through. The street was an eerie, empty canyon of asphalt, guarded at both ends by Evelyn's security.
Inside the bistro, the atmosphere was hauntingly still. The staff stood in a line, heads bowed, while the tables remained empty of their usual patrons. The only sound was the low drone of a television mounted above the bar.
The two women took their seats, but Charlotte's attention was immediately snagged by the screen. A "BREAKING NEWS" banner flashed in vivid crimson.
"Prominent businessman Jason Brown has just been arrested," the anchor announced, her voice clinical. "Our sources indicate he is being investigated for massive insider trading and embezzlement. It is believed that Mr. William Winkle, a co-conspirator, has fled Omak to avoid prosecution. He is currently still at large. Stay tuned as this story unfolds."
The footage cut to a chaotic scene in front of the Wilson Group headquarters. Jason Brown—looking rumpled and panicked—was being led out in handcuffs. Reporters swarmed like vultures, their camera flashes strobe-lighting his descent into disgrace as microphones were shoved toward his face.
"Poor Mrs. Wilson," Evelyn sighed, though her eyes remained cold behind her sunglasses. "To have a board member like Mr. Brown steal from her company. It's unconscionable."
Charlotte let out a sharp, melodic laugh that echoed in the empty restaurant. "Is it not Mrs. Taylor, darling?"
She was thinking of Carrie Wilson's husband—that disgraceful peasant who had paraded through their circles for years. The man had actually behaved as if he belonged, a delusion that Charlotte found endlessly hysterical.
"Don't be mean," Evelyn laughed, unable to hold back a smirk of her own. She signaled to a waiter, who moved forward with the stillness of a ghost. "Poor Carrie was always so... pitiful."
Author's note:
I should see you next Saturday. But work is killing me. This is the extra chapter. Enjoy