Ava exhaled sharply as she and Ryan filed onto the crowded plane, dodging elbows, oversized bags, and a family arguing loudly over who got the window seat. Her nerves were already frayed from the whirlwind of packing, last-minute client handoffs, and Mei's meddling. But this—this would be her moment of peace. A quiet flight to mentally prepare herself for what was waiting in New York: billionaires, psychics, and algorithms. No distractions, she told herself.
She glanced at her ticket: Row 22. "Great, middle of the plane," she muttered, clutching her carry-on as she navigated the narrow aisle.
Ryan, walking just behind her, smirked. "Could be worse. We could be next to someone eating tuna salad."
"Please don't jinx it," Ava replied. She craned her neck, searching for their seats.
And then she froze.
