“Not necessary,” I say, making a split-second decision. “We’re already running behind schedule.”
Caleb’s eyes track the brief contact between Elle and me with unsettling interest. There’s something predatory in his gaze that makes me drop her wrist faster than I should.
“Schedule,” Caleb repeats, amused. “God forbid Adrian Cole arrives four minutes late to anything. The world might stop spinning.”
I ignore him, focusing instead on the practical aspects of this disaster. The jet is spacious enough—four leather seats facing each other in the main cabin, with a small conference table between them. A couch lines the far wall. Still, five hours in an enclosed space with two of my biggest corporate rivals and my assistant was not part of today’s plan.
“Well,” Elle says, breaking the tense silence with forced brightness, “I suppose we should get settled. We’ll be taking off shortly.”
She moves toward the seat furthest from Caleb, placing her bag on the table. I notice her hands are steady despite the unexpected situation—one of the qualities that made her stand out from day one. Elle Park doesn’t rattle easily, even when surrounded by three Alphas in a pressurized tube at 40,000 feet.
The flight attendant emerges from the cockpit, a professionally neutral smile plastered on her face. “Gentlemen, Ms. Park, we’ll be taking off in approximately ten minutes. Please make yourselves comfortable.”
“Three bitter corporate rivals trapped in a flying tin can,” Caleb muses after she retreats. “Sounds like the setup for a bad joke.”
“Or a murder mystery,” Miles mutters, finally setting his tablet aside.
Elle unpacks her laptop methodically, creating a workspace that effectively blocks out everyone else. I take the seat beside her, maintaining maximum distance from both Caleb and Miles. The seating arrangement feels like a chess game where no one wants to make the first move.
“So,” Caleb leans forward, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, “how’s NovaDyne’s third quarter looking, Cole? Still struggling with those supply chain issues in Malaysia?”
I feel my jaw clench. “Our quarterly projections are confidential, as you well know.”
“Just making conversation,” he shrugs, his grin widening. “Five hours is a long time to sit in hostile silence.”
“I prefer hostile silence to disingenuous small talk,” Miles interjects, earning a glare from Caleb and a fleeting look of approval from me. Perhaps Harrington isn’t completely intolerable.
The plane begins taxiing, the gentle movement signaling our imminent departure. Elle opens a spreadsheet, her focus absolute, or at least appearing to be. I know her well enough to recognize when she’s creating a buffer zone with work—a tactic I’ve employed countless times myself.
“Ms. Park,” Caleb pivots his attention, “how do you manage working for the most intense Alpha in the tech sector? Does he schedule your bathroom breaks too?”
Elle doesn’t look up. “Mr. Rios, I manage quite well, thank you. And unlike some companies, we actually meet our deadlines.”
I suppress a smile. Elle’s ability to deliver subtle barbs without breaking her professional demeanor is one of her more valuable skills.
Caleb laughs, genuinely amused rather than offended. “Touché. Though I think my team appreciates my more relaxed management style.”
“Is that what you call it?” I can’t help interjecting. “I thought it was called ‘winging it’.”
Miles snorts, then quickly disguises it as a cough. The plane accelerates down the runway, pressing us back into our seats. Elle’s hand grips the armrest between us, her knuckles whitening slightly. I remember from her personnel file that she’s not fond of takeoffs—a rare admission of vulnerability in her otherwise flawless professional façade.
Without thinking, I place my hand over hers for the briefest moment, just enough pressure to acknowledge her discomfort without drawing attention to it. Her eyes flick to mine, surprised, before returning to her screen. The contact lasts no more than three seconds, but it’s enough to make me acutely aware of her scent—or rather, the almost complete absence of it.
Elle is meticulous with her blockers, more so than any Omega I’ve worked with. Yet there’s always something that slips through—a hint of vanilla, perhaps, or coconut—so subtle that I sometimes wonder if I’m imagining it. Today, as the plane levels off and my hand returns to my own armrest, I catch it again. That whisper of sweetness beneath the clinical nothingness of high-grade blockers.
It’s distracting. Irritatingly so.
“So, the International Tech Summit,” Caleb breaks the silence again once we’ve reached cruising altitude. “I hear you’re unveiling the new neural interface prototype, Cole. Bold move, considering Synercom’s quantum processor hit the market last month.”
“Our neural interface operates on completely different principles,” I reply, keeping my tone even despite the obvious bait. “The comparison is irrelevant.”
“Nothing’s irrelevant in this industry,” Miles comments, his eyes sharp. “Titan Global’s investment portfolio just acquired a significant stake in neural interface research. Perhaps we should discuss potential overlaps.”
And there it is—the real reason Harrington is here. Titan Global doesn’t develop tech; they finance it, buy it, and sometimes bury it if it threatens their other investments.
“There’s nothing to discuss,” I say flatly. “NovaDyne’s research is proprietary.”
Elle shifts in her seat, crossing her legs. The movement is small, insignificant, yet it draws my attention like a flare in the night sky. A subtle wave of her scent reaches me—stronger this time, as though her blockers are struggling to contain it in the recycled air of the cabin.
