The private jet smelled of leather, old money, and secrets. Valentina sat by the window, fingers laced in her lap, the note with her mother’s name folded neatly in her coat pocket. Across from her, Adrian was quiet. He hadn’t asked her again if she was sure he knew better now.
The sky outside was a heavy gray, like it, too, carried the weight of old sins.
“You don’t have to confront her alone,” Adrian said finally, his voice low, almost reverent.
Valentina turned to him. “She’s my mother.”
“That doesn’t mean she’ll show mercy.”
“I’m not asking for mercy. I’m demanding answers.”
Adrian gave a tight nod. His phone buzzed on the table between them, but he ignored it. His focus remained on her, sharp and unreadable. He’d tried to protect her. Now, he stood beside her.
As the jet landed
