The descent into the Caribbean airspace was a jarring transition.
Behind them lay the freezing, steel-and-glass labyrinth of Manhattan, governed by ruthless efficiency and cutthroat acquisitions. Below them lay an endless, blinding expanse of turquoise water, broken only by the jagged, emerald-green silhouette of the private island.
The Bombardier Global 7500 banked smoothly, aligning with the narrow airstrip carved into the jungle canopy.
Inside the cabin, the atmosphere had shifted from the high-voltage tension of corporate restructuring into a heavy, languid anticipation.
Ryan sat in the oversized leather chair, dressed simply in a dark t-shirt and linen trousers. He didn't have his phone. He hadn't checked a single market metric since they left Teterboro. The deliberate, enforced disconnection was a physical relief, uncoiling the tight, persistent knot of adrenaline that had resided at the base of his skull for four months.
