Amara stood just outside the airport, watching as Elara's private jet became a tiny speck against the horizon. The ache in her chest was irritatingly persistent, and she huffed as if exhaling hard enough could physically expel it.
[Care to explain why you look like someone just stole your favorite Birkin bag?]
The voice of the System sliced through her thoughts, annoyingly chipper for something that was supposed to be helpful.
Not now, Amara shot back silently, pinching the bridge of her nose.
[Oh, come on, Amara. I've seen toddlers handle goodbyes better than this. And you? You're supposed to be a big, scary corporate heir with an attitude to match.]
First of all, rude, Amara thought, her lips twitching despite herself. Second, I am handling it. It's called processing.
[Ah, yes. Crying internally while glaring at strangers. A hallmark of emotional maturity.]
