The blinding flash of paparazzi cameras always felt a bit like a surgical lamp—harsh, unforgiving, and stripping away every shred of privacy.
When our private jet had touched down on the wet San Francisco tarmac hours earlier, the civilian gates of the airport were already swarming with vultures. News vans from every major network in California lined the perimeter, their satellite dishes pointed at the sky like predatory birds. My name was still flashing across the global news feeds, a sudden, explosive wave of public vindication that had turned our low-profile arrival into the most anticipated event of the evening.
But Asher's security detail didn't do public spectacles. Miller had coordinated a flawless extraction, slipping our armored convoy past the media blockade through a restricted cargo exit before the press could even catch a glimpse of my face.
