77. Isle Nikolaev

Aella

The hum of the private jet’s engines seems to blend into the background, like white noise in a sea of my restless thoughts.

Roman sits across from me, in a seat made of the finest leather money can buy, absorbed in some files on his tablet. The rich interior of the jet, with its ambient mood lighting and plush furnishings, contrasts sharply with the tension I feel in my bones.

“Would you like another glass of wine, Luna?” the flight attendant offers, her voice polished as the silver tray she’s holding.

I shake my head. “No, thank you.”

As she retreats, Roman finally looks up, his stormy eyes meeting mine. “You’re not usually this quiet,” he observes.

“Well,” I say, biting the inside of my cheek, “you’re not usually this secretive. Where are we going?”

He grins, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “It’s a surprise.”

“I’m not particularly fond of surprises,” I retort, although a part of me thrills at the mystery.

“You’ll like this one,” he promises. His eyes darken a shade, and I