The jet was quieter than any place Theo had ever been, which was a feat, considering it was flying six hundred miles an hour over the Mojave at an altitude most humans would never see. Every surface absorbed sound. The windows were half the size of the ones on commercial flights, and the glass was so heavily tinted it made the world outside look like a memory: Los Angeles a distant shine, the desert below as soft as a tablecloth, the sun surgically removed from the equation.

  Inside, the luxury was understated to the point of denial. The seats were real leather, not the kind from business class but something that gripped him gently, warming to his shape. There were no rows—just a handful of curved, paired loungers facing each other, separated by a table of real wood. The only visible screen was embedded in the bulkhead, running a silent loop of stock footage: reefs, wild horses, ballet dancers, then back to reefs. There were four doors in the cabin, all closed. The only sign of a crew was the steady progress of chilled mineral water that appeared at intervals, each bottle capped and aligned to an invisible standard.

  Theo and Kristina shared the window-side lounger, their shoulders pressed so close he could feel the heat of her radiating through both their jackets. She’d spent the first ten minutes after takeoff on the phone, handling what Leslie called “the triage,” which meant dealing with “Mia Amor” things, then bracing herself for the storm of notifications that followed. When she was done, she set the phone face-down on the table, slumped into the seat, and wordlessly curled her hand into his. She wore his hoodie again, the sleeves bunched at her knuckles, the fabric so oversize she looked like she’d borrowed it from the world’s tallest child.

  He wore the clothes from yesterday evening: soft jeans, white T-shirt, the twist-tie ring on his finger, now slightly sticky from nervous palm sweat. He hadn’t let himself remove it, not even to shower. Every time he glanced down, the sight of it triggered a tiny shock, as if the night were still happening on a loop, a system interrupt he could never silence.

  Across from them, Leslie had set up shop: tablet out, stylus working over some digital form, her posture immaculate despite the turbulence that sometimes rolled under the floor like an afterthought. The manager’s entire presence was built for crisis: suit perfectly pressed, hair pulled back so tightly it made her jaw look carved, a binder full of contracts and non-disclosure agreements arrayed on the table as if daring anyone to break eye contact.

  They’d been flying for nearly an 30 minutes when Leslie finally set the stylus down, adjusted her glasses, and looked at them over the rim. “I assume neither of you have eaten,” she said, more statement than question.

  Theo shook his head, stomach a small stone in his abdomen. Kristina just shrugged, her thumb tracing an anxious line up and down the inside of Theo’s wrist.

  Leslie reached for the intercom, pressed a button, and murmured a request. Within a minute, a cabin attendant appeared, wordless and spectral, and set down a tray of croissants, cut fruit, and espresso shots the size of thimbles. The attendant vanished before Theo could muster a thank you.

  He stared at the tray. The croissants were miniatures, glazed with some shiny substance that caught the low light and made them look like a physics experiment in surface tension.

  Leslie said, “Eat something. You’ll need the glucose.”

  Theo took a croissant, more for the gesture than the hunger. Kristina did the same, but held hers with both hands, squeezing it to a pulp before she brought it to her mouth. Leslie watched them for a moment, then tapped her tablet and rotated it toward them.

  “Let’s not waste time,” she said. “Here’s the current situation. I need you both to listen, because the next hour determines how we survive the next year.”

  Kristina sat up straighter, a military recalibration of her spine. Theo tried to match her, but the seat wanted him to relax and so he settled for a compromise posture: upright, but ready to fold at the first sign of trouble.

  Leslie spoke with the cadence of someone used to delivering terrible news as a public service. “The marriage is official. The chapel filed the certificate at 8:08 a.m. I have a digital scan, which means so does every government entity and, more relevantly, so does every tabloid with an informant in Clark County.”

  Theo tried to imagine how this would hurt Kristina. How many people would need to be paid off to keep a Vegas wedding quiet, and realized the answer was “infinite.”

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  She continued: “The media cycle’s distracted by the afterparty coverage, for now. That window will close by noon. I’ve already spoken with Victor; he wants us at Luminary headquarters within the hour. Legal has reviewed your contract, and crisis PR is on standby. The official guidance is to proceed as if nothing happened. We have more than enough footage to place you elsewhere and several credible witnesses ready to corroborate it. I’ve also prepared a list of anticipated questions in case something slips through and a reporter corners you.” She slid a page across the table. The font was so tiny it looked like a virus under a microscope.

  Kristina peered at the list, then exhaled through her nose. “He’s going to fire me, isn’t he?”

  Leslie shook her head. “Not fire. Worse. He’s going to try to own this.”

  Theo found his voice. “What does that mean?”

  “It means,” said Leslie, “that you”—she pointed at Kristina—“will renegotiate your contract so Victor can try and wrestle more control of your life. And you”—the finger snapped to Theo—“will be offered something to walk away”

  Theo didn’t like the sound of either option. “What if we just refuse?”

  Leslie’s eyes went sharp. “Your wife signed a contract, Mr. Wilson. A real one. There is no refusing. Only negotiating.” She looked at Kristina, the edge in her voice softening by a millimeter. “He’ll be angrier about the clause than the wedding.”

  Theo’s brain hit the brake. “What clause?”

  Kristina’s grip on his hand tightened, the color leaving her knuckles. “The morality clause,” she said. “It’s in every artist’s agreement. ‘Actions which could negatively impact the brand or the marketability of the performer…’ Something like that.”

  Leslie nodded. “Victor will claim the marriage violates the clause. He’ll use that as leverage to force a revised agreement. He may even push for an annulment. The good news is, we have something he wants more than he wants to punish you. Which is control.”

  Theo felt the absurdity of his own position: he was now the legal husband of a woman who, a week ago, he’d never expected to see outside a coffee shop, and now a corporate machine wanted him either erased or weaponized. He tried to make sense of it, but the logic kept folding back on itself.

  Leslie’s gaze softened again, the steel giving way to something closer to fatigue. “Theo, I know this is a lot. I’m not here to hurt you. But you need to be aware of what you’re up against.”

  He nodded, looking down at his hand. Kristina was still squeezing it. He tried to return the pressure, but his fingers were too cold.

  Leslie leaned forward, her tone more confidential. “There’s a chance they try to separate you before you even get to the meeting. If that happens, do not agree to anything until I’m in the room with you. Do you understand?”

  Theo nodded again, the words catching in his throat. “Why?”

  “Because,” said Leslie, “Victor will try to make you sign something. A non-disclosure. A waiver. An NDA so strict you’ll be sued if you even text your own mother.” She glanced at Kristina, her eyes flickering with an apology too subtle for words. “He does this every day. He knows every trick.”

  Kristina made a small, bitter sound. “He’s probably already got a team drafting the narrative if we’re exposed.”

  Theo asked, “Who is ‘Victor,’ exactly?”

  Leslie hesitated, as if weighing how much reality Theo could handle. “Victor Harrington. CEO of Luminary. He’s the closest thing I’ve ever seen to a machine that learned how to smile.”

  Theo tried to picture him: a man so powerful he could move armies with a spreadsheet, yet so obsessed with control he’d fly two employees on a private jet just to have a ten-minute meeting. It felt like something out of a TV show, but also, it fit perfectly with the world he’d glimpsed through Kristina.

  Leslie shifted tactics, her tone softening further. “I have a plan, but I need to know. How committed are you to this?”

  Kristina answered first, voice level. “Completely.”

  Theo found himself believing her. “Me too. Whatever it takes.”

  Leslie finally smiled, but it was a smile with a hundred sharp edges. She reached into her bag, produced two slim phones—identical, black, unmarked—and slid them across the table. “Secure line. They’re preloaded with only my number and each other’s. Don’t use your old phones to contact each other. If you see any press or are approached by anyone, call me on this phone first.”

  Theo picked up the phone, turned it over in his hand. It felt like a talisman, or a detonator.

  Leslie looked at him, her eyes almost kind. “You’re not a hostage, Theo. Not really. Let’s just get through today.” Then she kissed him.

  He wanted to believe her, but the words settled in his gut like a missed step on a staircase.

  Kristina leaned into him, letting her head rest against his shoulder. For the first time since takeoff, he felt her muscles unclench, just a little. He wrapped his arm around her, holding tight.

  The jet began its descent, the angle of the cabin shifting so imperceptibly it took the pop of Theo’s ears to register it. The city below glowed through the tinted windows, all edges and light, an ocean of possibilities and traps.

  Leslie gathered her tablet, repacked her binder, and ran a hand through her hair, restoring every strand to its intended place.

  Before she stood, she glanced at Theo, her voice pitched just for him. “Remember,” she said, “in this world, everyone has an angle. Also, no public displays of affection.”

  Theo nodded, and as the jet banked toward the runway, he let go of Kristina’s hand, felt her unlace her fingers from his, and tried to steel himself for whatever waited for him next.