-*+ The Royal Flush Saga 3/5
Quincy Thorne, the most reserved--yet genius--of his group of brothers, has resided in Atlanta since Ace's love story. Now running a small yet respected publishing firm, completely out of range from his family's brand...
Oops! Bu görüntü içerik kurallarımıza uymuyor. Yayımlamaya devam etmek için görüntüyü kaldırmayı ya da başka bir görüntü yüklemeyi deneyin.
The buzz of the private jet was oddly soothing, even if it served as a reminder of my complicated reality.
I leaned back in the leather seat, staring out the window as the clouds swirled beneath me, masking the earth I was determined to start over on.
The cabin smelled faintly of aged wood and lavender, scents I knew too well from my father's other toys—his yacht, his penthouse, his endless stream of status symbols.
This jet, like everything else in my life, was a gift I didn't ask for and wouldn't return. My father's money always came with strings, but I had a knack for cutting them just close enough to take what I needed and leave him behind.
It was an unspoken agreement between us: I stayed away, he footed the bill. He was probably more content with the arrangement than I was, a sad but true face.
Atlanta was his city. He'd built his empire there, block by block, dollar by dollar, drowning out the competition with his ruthless tenacity.
I never wanted to step foot in it. And yet here I was, flying straight into the heart of it, not for him, but for myself—or so I told myself.
The memories of New York still stung, more than I cared to admit. I'd spent every single day for what felt like forever, waist-deep in King Thorne's chaos, helping him dismantle Charles Whitaker's empire.
It was thrilling, dangerous, and entirely intoxicating. But the cost? I paid that in full.
Charles had stripped me bare in ways that went beyond the physical. He'd forced me to confront parts of myself I'd buried deep, and when the dust settled, I realized I couldn't stay.
New York wasn't a home; it was a battlefield. And I wasn't about to spend the rest of my life fighting ghosts. At least not on someone else's accord. If it was going to be a ghost, it'd be my choice to go after it.
Atlanta promised something different—something more.
A client had called me two weeks ago, a man whose voice dripped with desperation even over the phone.
"I need your skills, Miss Baek," he'd said, his Southern drawl thick. "This isn't just another missing persons case. It's...bigger than that. Bigger than me."
I didn't need much convincing. A chance to dive back into the field, to lose myself in work, was exactly what I craved. But I'd do it on my terms, how I saw fit. King had rather—absurd ways of getting the truth.
It didn't hurt that he offered a money-bag large enough to make me forget the bruises left by my last adventure. As soon as I saw the amount of zeros--I shut up.
The jet jolted slightly, pulling me from my thoughts. A glass of champagne rested untouched on the table beside me.
I didn't drink on flights—not anymore. Too many bad memories of turbulence mixed with hangovers.
