She Stole My Seat on My Private Jet. She Forgot I Owned the Sky.

“Mrs. Whitaker?”

I looked at the seat.

There was a new blanket folded there.

Soft gray.

No monogram.

No history.

I touched the leather armrest.

Memory is strange.

It can turn a place into a weapon.

Then, one day, if you are patient and cruel enough to survive, it becomes only a place again.

“Where to?” Captain Reeves asked.

I looked out at the runway.

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