The plane touched down with a jolt, and Sofia felt her stomach flip in that unpleasant roller-coaster way that reminded her she had not slept at all during the flight. She pressed her forehead lightly against the cold window, watching the lights of Hong Kong shimmer beneath the night sky. The city stretched out like a jeweled net, glittering and restless, a place that seemed to hum even at midnight. It looked alive, pulsing with energy, impatient for movement. Nothing like Makati, where her life was careful and small and predictable.
Beside her, Ginny, Echelon’s resident photographer and chaos incarnate, stretched with the dramatic groan of someone twice her age. “Finally. My legs are dead. Remind me never to agree to middle seats again unless Tristan Jacinto himself is sitting next to me
