The city greeted them with cold wind.
Not snow.
Not storms.
Just sharp air slicing between black cars outside the private terminal while distant lights blurred softly against the dark sky.
Emma Laurent stepped out beside Rowan and immediately regretted not bringing a heavier coat.
The wind cut straight through fabric.
“This weather feels personally hostile,” she muttered.
Beside her, Rowan adjusted the cuff of his coat without looking remotely affected by the temperature.
“You’ll survive.”
“That sounded deeply unsympathetic.”
“You’re judging the climate like it insulted your family.”
“I’m cold enough to take this personally.”
A quiet laugh escaped him as they entered the terminal.
And immediately—
everything shifted.
Emma noticed it every time Rowan entered places like this.
