The jet wasn’t a plane. It was a threat. A sin. A power move in aerodynamic form.
Ryan’s private jet... and yes, let’s be very clear here, his, not “the Glasgow jet” or “the company jet,” but Ryan Glasgow’s very own flying lair... looked like a Vogue photoshoot got drunk with a Bond villain’s wet dream. Mahogany panels. Cream leather seats so long and wide you could stage a small opera on them. Low warm lights that whispered old money. A minibar so aggressively curated it made my childhood fridge feel like a public school vending machine. And the one-on-one conference seats with a gleaming center table between them? I wanted to lick it. Or slap him across it. Or maybe both.
I kept my back ramrod straight. Chin high. A mild, bored look on my face like I flew in multimillion-dollar airspa
