The driver threw the car into park and jumped out. He pulled open the rear door of the Maybach.
Charlene's joints popped as she forced herself to move. She dragged her body out of the car.
Her feet hit the rough asphalt of the tarmac.
The wind out here was violent. It whipped her long, unbrushed hair across her face, stinging her eyes.
She walked toward the private Gulfstream jet. She climbed the metal stairs of the boarding ramp, her legs feeling like lead with every step.
She stepped inside the luxurious cabin. The air was warm and smelled of expensive leather and polished wood.
She ignored the plush sofas and walked straight to a single, isolated seat by the window. She collapsed into it.
She grabbed the heavy metal buckle of the seatbelt and shoved it into the slot. It clicked.
The engines roared to life. The plane began to taxi down the runway. Within seconds, the nose lifted, and the jet shot into the sky.
The cabin pressure shifted. Her ears popped.
Instantly, a brutal wave of vertigo slammed into the back of her skull. It was the lingering side effect of the Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation therapy they had forced on her.
Her vision blurred. The edges of the cabin warped and twisted.
Acid boiled in her stomach. The nausea rushed up her esophagus like a geyser.
She slammed her hand against the seatbelt release button.
She stumbled out of the chair. Her knees buckled, but she caught herself on the edge of the armrest.
She sprinted down the narrow aisle toward the back of the plane.
She threw open the bathroom door, lunged inside, and slammed the lock shut behind her.
She dropped to her knees. The hard floor bruised her kneecaps.
She leaned over the stainless steel toilet and gagged.
Her stomach violently contracted. She threw up nothing but bitter, yellow bile. Her throat burned. She coughed, gasping for air, tears streaming down her face from the physical strain.
When her stomach was finally empty, she grabbed the edge of the sink and pulled herself up.
She turned on the faucet. The water was freezing. She cupped it in her hands, rinsing the foul taste from her mouth, and splashed it onto her pale face.
She looked up at the mirror.
The woman looking back at her was a ghost. Sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, dead skin.
She took a deep, rattling breath. She unlocked the door and pushed it open.
Columbus was standing right outside.
He didn't say a word. He just held out a perfectly folded, pure white square handkerchief.
Charlene stared at the fabric. A surge of pure, unadulterated hatred flared in her chest.
She raised her hand and slapped his arm away.
The handkerchief fluttered to the expensive wool carpet.
Columbus's jaw clenched tight. A muscle ticked in his cheek. His eyes darkened with sudden, explosive rage.
His hand shot out. His fingers wrapped around her thin wrist like an iron vice.
He squeezed. The bones in her wrist ground together.
"Do not test my patience, Charlene," he hissed, his face inches from hers. "You are walking on very thin ice."
Charlene didn't flinch. She didn't pull away. She stared right back into his eyes. Her gaze was completely dead, devoid of any fear or light.
Columbus stared at her dead eyes. Something flickered in his expression. He scoffed, a harsh, ugly sound, and shoved her arm away.
He adjusted his suit cuffs, smoothing the fabric.
"Grandpa's heart condition has worsened," Columbus said, his voice dropping back to that cold, business-like tone. "His only wish is to see you."
The name hit her like a physical blow. Grandpa.
The rigid tension in Charlene's shoulders collapsed. The fight drained out of her body.
She closed her eyes. For the only man in the world who had ever truly loved her, she swallowed her pride. She turned around and walked silently back to her seat.
