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

deepened.

The jet began to move.

On the tarmac, Sienna looked smaller than she had inside the cabin.

That is the thing about stolen thrones.

They only look convincing from the right lighting.

As the plane lifted over New Jersey, Manhattan opened beneath me like a map of old mistakes.

I finally allowed myself one breath.

Not a sob.

Not relief.

Just oxygen.

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