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His name was Kaelen Cross. She learned this after he’d paid off the lounge attendant—a smooth, discreet exchange of a black card and a nod that spoke of frequent use. He’d led her to a private suite, a soundproofed enclave with a leather couch, a minibar, and a view of the flooded runway.

She wore a dark, form-fitting top that hugged her curves, a sharp contrast to her exhausted expression. Elena called herself a modern-day Cinderella—not because of a fairy godmother, but because her life felt like a series of strict deadlines and responsibilities that always seemed to expire at midnight. Tonight, she was trapped in transit, her gown replaced by travel-weary clothes and her carriage nothing more than a plastic airport chair. blacked sinderella layover hookup top