The private jet hummed softly around them.
Low lights.
Muted silence.
The distant glow of cities scattered beneath the clouds.
Emma slept curled against Rowan’s shoulder beneath a cashmere blanket sometime after midnight, exhaustion finally winning after one of the most emotionally overwhelming nights of her life.
And Rowan had barely moved for the last hour.
Because apparently the terrifyingly composed Rowan Blackwood would rather lose circulation in his arm than risk waking her up.
His laptop rested open across his lap while emails continued flooding the screen.
Investor reports.
Acquisition updates.
Legal approvals.
Normally, he handled all of it with ruthless focus.
Tonight?
He kept getting distracted by the woman sleeping beside him.
His gaze drifted toward Emma again.
