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When we landed at Heathrow, the sun was cutting through the morning fog. A black Rolls Royce waited on the tarmac for the Chairwoman. For years, I had clipped my own wings to make Mark feel tall. I had hidden my wealth and intellect, believing that love required me to be a passenger in my own life. But as the car pulled away and I watched the Skyward jet glinting in the distance, I realized I was done being a passenger. The sky was vast, open, and entirely mine. I wasn’t just surviving; I was finally ready to fly.
