Chapter 3: The Letter Keeper
The private jet taxied to a smooth halt on the secluded airstrip just outside Star Harbour. The sky had begun to darken into a dusty twilight, casting a soft orange hue over the glassy coastline and shimmering city skyline in the distance. The door hissed open, steps extended.
Miles descended without a word.
Waiting at the bottom stood a sharply dressed man in his early thirties. Dark blazer over a turtleneck, black gloves, clean-cut beard, and sleek aviator shades pushed back into his slick hair.
He stepped forward with a courteous nod. "Mr. Miles? I’m Ethan—your driver."
Miles nodded faintly, eyes scanning the surroundings.
Ethan was the type who blended in with rich company — former valet turned private chauffeur, quiet, trustworthy, trained to mind his own business. Hired through one of Monica’s usual channels, he had no idea who he was really serving. Just that his employer’s name opened doors that stayed shut for ordinary men.
"I’ve been told you prefer a quiet ride. The address is already in the system," Ethan said, opening the door to a sleek, obsidian-colored Bentley Flying Spur, its engine purring like a predator at rest. The interior smelled of fresh leather and luxury.
Miles slid in without a word.
As they glided out of the airport gates and into the glowing streets of Port City, his gaze remained fixed outside. The city had grown since he last remembered it — taller buildings, cleaner roads, brighter lights — but the air still carried the scent of salt and rust from the harbor.
And as they turned into the quieter residential district marked on the old letter, time began to slow.
Familiar houses — aged, modest, dignified — stood in long lines, some renovated, others preserved in fading charm. His fingers twitched as memories started pulling at his chest like the tide.