As Jonathan meticulously constructed his narrative of crocodile tears, weaving lies to manipulate allies and cover his tracks, he never expected to see me striding confidently toward him across the dimly lit tarmac. The night air was crisp, carrying with it the faint scent of jet fuel and polished metal. The glow of floodlights bounced off the polished wings of the private jets, casting long shadows that made the scene almost cinematic. Every step I took was deliberate, every movement controlled, a demonstration of the power I had reclaimed. My heart pounded—not from fear or adrenaline—but from the… CONTINUE READING…
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