Brenda smoothed her uniform, adjusted her gold wing pin, and walked back to the galley without a single word. Her heels clicked against the floor: steady, unhurried, the sound of someone who believed she had won.
Olivia sat alone. The handprint on her cheek was deepening from pink to red. She reached into her hoodie pocket, pulled out her phone. The voice memo app was still running; the red timer showed 46 minutes and counting.
She opened her text messages, found Derek Moore's name, and typed six words:
"Call the lawyers. SkyVault is done."
She pressed send. Then she placed the phone face down on the armrest, leaned her head back against the seat, and stared at the ceiling.
Outside the oval window, the clouds rolled past like a slow white river. The sun was fully up now. The sky was the kind of blue that looks almost fake, too bright, too perfect for a morning like this. Inside the cabin, Olivia sat with her hands folded in her lap, cheek burning, heart calm.
The landing gear hit the tarmac in Savannah with a soft double thump. The engines wound down. Morning light poured through every window, warm and golden, like the world outside had no idea what had just happened inside this cabin.
Brenda was already up: straightening her uniform, checking her hair in the reflection of the galley window. She tugged her gold wing pin half a millimeter to the left, making sure it was perfectly centered. She looked like a woman preparing to greet a dignitary: composed, polished, untouchable.
Olivia stayed in her seat. She hadn't moved since sending that text. Her laptop was closed; her hands were still folded in her lap. The handprint on her cheek had darkened into something you couldn't miss: a reddish-purple shadow with the faint outline of four fingers pressed into her skin like a stamp.
The jet rolled to a stop. Captain Dale opened the cockpit door and stepped out without looking at anyone. He busied himself with paperwork on the center console, avoiding eye contact the way people do when they know they failed and don't want to be reminded.
Brenda moved to the cabin door. She released the handle and pushed it open. Warm Georgia air rushed in: humid, thick, carrying the smell of jet fuel and fresh-cut grass from the airfield.
She looked out at the tarmac and stopped.
Two black SUVs were parked at the base of the stairs—not airport shuttles, not rental cars. Two identical black Cadillac Escalades with tinted windows and a logo printed on both front doors in clean silver lettering: