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The moment I opened my eyes the next morning, the room was already buzzing with activity. Maids flitted around like they were on a mission, they were opening closet doors, laying out garment bags, and wheeling in trays of hot coffee and pastries, as if we were gearing up for a royal event instead of just a two-hour flight.
Someone had already drawn back the heavy silk curtains, flooding the suite with pale winter light that bounced off the mirrors in bright flashes. My phone read 7:42 a.m., which meant we were officially running late, and in Keith Fell's world, being late was basically a crime.
I barely had a moment to rub the sleep from my eyes before a maid...Maria, I think, appeared with a tray of fresh orange juice and a warm croissant.
"Mr. Noah, we need to hurry. The car leaves for the airport in thirty minutes."
