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A rare half-smile crosses his face. "When did you get so philosophical?"

"Probably around the time we started sharing a woman instead of fighting over her." I adjust my seat, stretching my legs as much as the confined space allows. "Life's weird like that."

The plane hits a pocket of turbulence, dipping slightly before Alex compensates. My stomach lurches uncomfortably.

"Martha's Vineyard, twelve o'clock," Alex announces, nodding toward the windshield.

The island materializes on the horizon, a smudge against the vast blue of the Atlantic. From this distance, it looks peaceful—rolling hills, pristine beaches, and dense forests. An ideal place to bury secrets in plain sight, cloaked in wealth and privilege.

“You might want to go ahead and change. Suit’s hanging in the back.”

“Did you steal that too?”

“Borrowed,” he reminds me again. “Just think, if we crash land, you’ll already be dressed for your funeral.”

“How convenient,” I mutter, unbuckling my seatbelt.

I make my way to the back of the cabin, unzipping the garment bag hanging against the wall. The bespoke navy suit inside costs more than most people's monthly rent, simply another piece of the Charles Blackwood illusion. I strip off my casual clothes and begin the transformation, each layer adding to the character I need to become.

"You think they'll buy it?" I call up to Alex as I button the crisp shirt.

"Just channel your inner entitled prick. Shouldn't be a stretch."

The plane banks slightly as Alex begins our descent. I brace against the wall, watching the island grow larger through the small window. Sprawling estates peek through the trees, private beaches curve along the shoreline, all screaming old money and exclusivity.

“You ready?”

"Almost done," I call back, adjusting my cufflinks—platinum with tiny sapphire inlays. The mirror mounted on the cabin wall reflects a stranger, perfect. I return to the cockpit just as we begin our final approach, the small airstrip appearing below us. It's barely more than a cleared stretch of land with a modest hangar at one end—discreet, private, exactly what we need.

"Prepare for landing," Alex mutters, his focus absolute as he guides the plane lower. The trees on either side of the runway seem too close, the strip itself too short. “Buckle up in the back. You’re a rich asshole now, and I am merely just your pilot and driver.”

“Harry Ballsack,” I remind him. “That’s your undercover name.”

“I still have time to crash the plane, Talon.”

“Fine,” he scoffs. “You’re not Harry Ballsack. I’ll call you Jack. Jack Meoff.”

“Not better,” he groans.

The wheels touch down with a surprisingly gentle bump, the plane rolling to a smooth stop before Alex taxis toward the small hangar where a black Range Rover waits. He powers down the engines with steady efficiency, the sudden silence almost deafening.

“I’m going to change. Stay here. From this point on, you’re the boss.”

Alex disappears into the back of the plane, and I hear the rustle of fabric as he changes. I take the opportunity to slip into character, adopting the slightly bored expression of a man who has never heard the word ‘no’ in his life.

When Alex emerges, the transformation is startling. Gone is the tech genius in casual clothes, replaced by a professional in a crisp black suit, white shirt, and narrow black tie with an added touch of non-prescription glasses with thin metal frames.Somehow managing to make himself look both forgettable and intimidating.

"Very chauffeur chic.”

Alex's only response is a withering glare as he grabs our equipment bag. “Stay here until I get the car.”

"Aye aye, captain," I mutter, watching as Alex descends the aircraft stairs.

Through the window, I observe him approaching the Range Rover, checking beneath it with a small mirror before circling the vehicle completely. Always thorough, always paranoid—and usually right. He pops the trunk, stows our bag, then slides behind the wheel to bring it closer to the plane.

I adjust my tie one last time, school my features into the calm, controlled expression of Charles Blackwood, and exit the aircraft. The island air hits me immediately.

Alex walks around to the driver’s side, "Sir," he says, his voice pitched lower than usual, accent crisper around the edges as he opens the door.