The private jet hummed as it descended, its engines a low growl that might as well have whispered money. Victoria's taste was, unsurprisingly, impeccable. Sleek, minimal, and overwhelmingly luxurious, the jet wasn't trying to prove anything—it knew it was better than you.
I sat in one of the plush leather seats, sipping on water that tasted suspiciously like it had been purified in the tears of angels.
I had spent the flight alternating between marveling at the insane luxury (the champagne chilled to a perfect 38 degrees was an obvious flex) and pretending I belonged here. Speedy, of course, was sprawled across one of the leather chairs, her boots kicked up on a polished table as she wolfed down snacks from a cart the flight attendant had wheeled out earlier.
Across from me, Speedy had taken full advantage of the complimentary snack cart, demolishing a tray of miniature sandwiches with all the grace of a starved raccoon.
