The plane's wheels met the tarmac with a smooth, practiced touch, a subtle jolt running through the cabin. Outside, the world was bathed in golden hues, the late afternoon sun stretching long shadows across the private island's airstrip. From above, the place had looked like something out of a dream—pristine white sand, dense green forests, and an azure coastline that kissed the horizon. But now that they were on the ground, Azzy felt the isolation pressing in.
A man in a crisp, tailored suit approached as they descended the stairs. He was middle-aged, with sharp features and an air of efficiency. "Welcome, Miss Ciesta," he greeted with a polite nod. "Everything has been prepared as per your instructions."
Ciesta barely acknowledged him with more than a smile before waving a dismissive hand. "Thank you, Mr. Graves. We'll head straight to the resort."
