Brandon Ford'
“Two first-class tickets to Athens, connecting to Santorini. Ninety minutes until wheels up.”
The woman on the phone practically snapped to attention when I said my name. “Right away, Mr. Ford. Your seats have been confirmed. The lounge access and fast-track security are ready.”
I hung up and looked at Tamara. She was still gripping her purse like it was a life raft, eyes fixed on the rain hitting the window in fat, angry drops.
“You backing out?” I asked straight. No sugar.
She shook her head fast. “No. I just… I feel sick. Like I’m about to stab my best friend in the back.”
“You’re not stabbing her. You’re handing her the knife so she can cut herself free.” I leaned back against the seat. “Big difference.”
She let out a short, bitter laugh. “You make it sound easy.”
