Streets That Cross
The wheels of the private jet screeched against the runway, rubber kissing asphalt with a force that made Ayisha’s stomach tighten. The cabin jolted, and she clutched her champagne glass, refusing to spill even a drop. Ethan Grant, sitting across from her in his charcoal three piece suit, smirked faintly at her stubbornness.
“Still holding on to champagne while the world shakes,” he said, his voice a low, amused rumble. “You’re stronger than you think.”
Ayisha tilted her head, the corner of her lips curving. “Or maybe I just refuse to lose even a sip of something that cost this much.”
They both laughed softly, but it was the kind of laughter that came layered with exhaustion and intent. This wasn’t a trip of luxury, not really. It was strategy disguised as indulgence
