Chapter 315: Convergence
Two flights. Two cities. One destination.
The logistics were simple in concept and nightmarish in execution. My Gulfstream would carry the Macau contingent — me, Ethan, Li Bai, and Song Mei — on the seventeen-hour flight from Macau International to Miami. The New York crew would fly commercial first class from JFK. Fourteen people converging on a beachfront villa from opposite ends of the earth.
Ethan boarded first, carrying a surfboard under one arm and a cooler under the other. He was already wearing board shorts and a Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned to his navel.
"Bro," Ethan said, grinning. "Miami."
"We're not bros, Ethan."
"We're literally best friends."
"Best friends don't wear Hawaiian shirts."
"This is a vacation shirt. There's a difference." He dropped onto the couch. "You're going to love it. The beaches, the clubs, the—"
"The nine women who are about to turn this plane into a warzone," I said. "Though at least this plane only has two of them."
Li Bai boarded quietly, one bag over her shoulder. She'd packed light — one bag, while the others would arrive with luggage that required its own zip code. She settled into a seat near the back and opened a book on Cantonese cuisine. She'd been teaching herself to cook from actual recipes rather than instinct. The Matriarch was learning to be domestic. It was the most unsettling thing I'd seen since the Empress tried to poison me.
"Are you nervous?" I asked.
"About the beach? No. About meeting your other women?" She turned a page. "I have sat across from the Empress of Macau and did not blink. I will survive a beach."
Song Mei was the last to board. She wore a simple black silk dress, no jewelry, her dark hair pinned up with two jade needles. She carried no luggage. She walked to the seat furthest from mine, sat down with the unhurried grace of a woman who had once ruled a city from a mountaintop, and opened a book in classical Chinese. She didn't look at me. She didn't need to.
Ethan glanced at me from the couch, eyebrows raised. "She's reading on a private jet. Who reads on a private jet?"
"Empresses," I said.
"Fair point." He cracked open a beer. "So what's the plan when we land? Walk in, say hi, hope nobody's killed anyone yet?"
"Isabella's had a two-hour head start. Someone's already been claimed."
"The master suite?"
"The master suite."
Ethan shook his head, grinning. "Nine women in one house, bro. This is going to be the most relaxing vacation that ends in murder."
Li Bai looked up from her cookbook. "He is not wrong."
The Gulfstream lifted off. Below us, Macau shrank into neon and concrete. Ahead of us, seventeen hours of confined airspace with my best friend, the Matriarch, and the Empress I'd conquered on a mountaintop three days ago.
...
We landed at Miami International at sunset. The New York flight had arrived two hours earlier. I could tell because when we pulled up to the villa on North Bay Road, the chaos was already in full swing.
Isabella Vane had claimed the master suite before anyone else had finished walking upstairs. Victoria Sterling was arguing with her about it from the hallway. Sofia Aldridge was on her phone in the kitchen, renegotiating the villa's catering contract — because Sofia didn't arrive at a location without optimizing it. Elena Vance had found the espresso machine, conquered it, and was producing cappuccinos with military precision.
Evelyn Cross was standing in the foyer, arms crossed, surveying the villa with the sharp analytical eye of a woman who had spent her career at the SEC investigating financial fraud. She wasn't assessing the decor. She was assessing the security layout — entry points, sight lines, structural vulnerabilities. Old habits. She'd been the one who'd investigated Jake's holdings when his empire first drew the SEC's attention. She'd been so thorough that Jake had decided to conquer her rather than fight her. It was, she admitted later, the more efficient outcome.
Claire was already on the couch, laptop open, running what I suspected was a background check on the villa staff. Darius stood near the front door, arms folded, scanning the perimeter with quiet professional discipline. He'd been stateside the whole time, running security for the New York operation, and looked like he hadn't slept — not from jet lag, but from managing the entire NY crew's departure.
"Welcome to Miami," Claire said without looking up. "Isabella's already claimed your room."
"Of course she has."
Song Mei stepped into the villa and went silent. Every head turned. Even Isabella stopped talking. The Empress walked through the foyer without acknowledging anyone, found the ground-floor room facing the garden, and disappeared inside. The silence lasted three full seconds before the chaos resumed.
Sofia hung up her phone, crossed the kitchen, and kissed me. Not a polite kiss. A real one — firm, confident, the kiss of a woman who ran a multibillion-dollar company and didn't apologize for wanting what she wanted. "You look exhausted," she said.
"I am."
"Good. Then you'll actually rest." She squeezed my hand, and I saw the flash of the CEO behind the warmth — the sharp, assessing glance that checked whether I was hurt, compromised, or hiding something. Sofia Aldridge didn't just love me. She managed me. She'd been managing the empire's public face for months while I was in Macau. "The villa is secured. I had Darius sweep it. The catering contract is renegotiated — they were overcharging by thirty percent."
"Sofia."
She stopped. Smiled. "Sorry. Force of habit."
"Relax. We're on vacation."
"I'll relax when I know the perimeter's secure and the catering isn't a rip-off." She went back to her phone, already drafting something. Sofia never fully stopped working. She just paused, occasionally, to kiss me.
[Ding! Vacation Protocol: Active.] [Host Stress Level: 91% and dropping.] [Notice: The System observes that Host is surrounded by nine extraordinary women. The System recommends: Enjoy this. It will not last.]
"That's ominous," I muttered.