Jack didn’t look mad. Which was somehow worse.
He stood there like some benevolent, understanding ex-boyfriend from a Netflix original, his arms crossed lightly over that stupidly expensive coat, his face calm like he hadn't noticed I’d ghosted his message and disappeared across international borders with his genetically duplicated nemesis.
"Welcome back," he said casually, like I just came back from a quick run to buy oat milk, not from a luxury tech summit in another f*****g country with the man whose name he refuses to say out loud. "Figured you’d be tired. Thought I’d come get you."
Behind him, Maxwell was leaning on the Rolls like a professional chauffeur/bodyguard/personal therapist who’s seen it all and has opinions on none of it. His black gloves were on. That was his way of say
