Alan
The silence of the presidential cabin was a physical weight, a suffocating pressure that seemed to expand with every frantic stride I took across the Persian rug.
The air still carried the faint, cloying scent of Miranda’s perfume…a floral, synthetic stench that now made my stomach turn.
I paced from the floor-to-ceiling windows to the mahogany desk, my boots clicking a hollow, restless rhythm that echoed the frantic beating of my heart.
Where was she?
I knew Cyril.
Even as a small child, her possessiveness had been a fierce, burning thing. If she claimed a toy, it was hers entirely; if she loved a person, she demanded their absolute, undivided soul.
She doesn't share.
She does not compromise.
I stared at the leather armchair where Miranda had been draped over me, and a
