POV: Camilla
The flight back from Paris had been an absolute nightmare.
To call it an insult would be a severe understatement. Maxwell had not even offered me a seat on his private jet. After he lost his mind tracking Fiona down at some filthy, rat-infested roadside motel, he had his security team shove her into the back of his armored SUV and drove straight to the airport. He left me sitting in the penthouse holding a standard first-class commercial ticket. It had arrived via an automated email from his assistant, accompanied by a cold, three-word text message from Maxwell himself telling me to go back to New York.
I had been forced to endure the indignity of walking through a public airport, dealing with customs, and sitting on a commercial airliner for eight agonizing hours. First-
