Chapter 13: International Travel

July 2020 wrapped the Chicago penthouse in thick, humid air that pressed against the floor-to-ceiling windows like a living thing, the river below glinting under a hazy sun. The city felt smaller now, contained, while the empire I’d built kept stretching its legs across borders I could already see in my mind. Twelve million had become twenty-eight in the space of months—Bitcoin riding the recovery wave I’d timed to perfection, dropshipping warehouses humming with contactless fulfillment, OnlyFans subscribers pouring in for the private clips we’d begun teasing from the new basement studio. Victor Kane’s shadow still lingered in the occasional anonymous ping, but he’d gone quiet after his operation folded. The threat had done its job: it reminded me the world outside our circle was watching. Time to expand the circle wider.

“We’re leaving the country,” I told the harem one sticky evening on the rooftop terrace, city lights flickering on like distant stars. Ten women circled me on wide loungers, bodies gleaming with the faint sheen of summer sweat, bellies rounded where my children grew. Mia’s hand rested protectively over hers, Mom’s lower curve catching the last of the daylight. The others—Brooke, Sophie, Sarah, Raven, Tara, Callie, Elena, Lena—leaned in, eyes bright with the same restless hunger I felt. “Private jet to Paris first, then Rome. Two weeks. No press, no borders that matter when you fly private. We launch the full OnlyFans empire there—exclusive content, the kind that prints money while the world stays locked down. And we bring two new faces home with us.”

Their smiles turned sharp, knowing. We packed light: lingerie, oils, cameras. The Gulfstream waited at a private airfield outside the city, leather seats the color of aged cognac, a narrow galley stocked with champagne, and enough space in the aft cabin to turn turbulence into foreplay. The pilot and crew knew to keep the cockpit door closed and their eyes forward. As the jet climbed into the night sky, the Midwest lights falling away beneath us, I felt the old thrill sharpen—eight years of memories telling me exactly how high this could go.

The mile-high club began the moment the seatbelt sign dimmed.

Mia rose first, her pregnant belly a soft, proud swell under the thin cashmere dress she’d slipped on for takeoff. She pressed me back against the curved bulkhead wall near the galley, the polished walnut cool against my shoulders. “High enough for you?” she whispered, voice husky with the altitude and the knowledge that the entire cabin was watching. I spun her, her back to my chest, dress rucked up around her hips. She braced her palms on the wall, legs parting as I freed myself and slid into her slick heat in one smooth glide. The jet’s low vibration hummed through us both, adding a constant, delicious tremor.