Chapter 1 – Sasha
The cabin hums with the soft, steady rhythm I know better than my own heartbeat. Air hisses through the vents, the lights glow gold against polished leather, and the whole plane feels like mine for a moment, calm and waiting.
I smooth my jacket, check the sharp line of my skirt, and glance at my reflection in the galley mirror. Blonde hair swept back into a sleek twist, lipstick precise, posture perfect. Blue eyes clear. A face that photographs well even when I’m not trying.
It’s the same ritual before every flight. Composure. Control. Effortless polish.
The first passenger steps into first class, and my smile slides into place, practiced but warm.
“Good evening, welcome aboard.”
He blinks when he sees me—like he wasn’t expecting someone like me. They never are. His smile softens, a little too eager, and I gesture him toward 2A with a flick of my hand.
“Thank you,” he says, eyes lingering.
I move on.
A woman comes next, all diamonds and silk. Her gaze flicks down my body and back up again, measuring, calculating. Admiration tucked behind disinterest. I know that look. I’ve seen it in hotel lobbies, cocktail bars, customs lines. Envy, curiosity. The silent kind.
“Welcome aboard,” I say, my tone the same.
By the time the third passenger arrives, the rhythm has settled. Greetings. Gestures. Contact without closeness. My armor is beauty, and I wear it like a uniform.
“Your seat is just this way.”
The man follows my hand, eyes dipping to the length of my legs as I walk ahead. He’s not the first tonight. He won’t be the last.
I’m used to it. The stares, the admiration. I’ve built my life on it—my job depends on it. There’s a thrill in knowing I set the tone of the cabin. That when I smile, people soften, and when I move, people look. It’s not just the way I look. It’s the way I carry it.
I lean up to stow a bag, feel the heat of a gaze on the curve of my calf, and keep my expression smooth. Smile. Step back. Click of heels against the aisle.
They can look. There’s nothing wrong with looking. But I’m untouchable. Always untouchable. I’m not above flirting occasionally, but I lose interest whenever things are about to get serious. I may have broken a few hearts along the way, but hey, that’s life. We can’t always have everything we want, and I’m thatthingthat people always want but almost always can’t have.
The boarding door opens again, and this time it isn’t just another passenger.
This one catches my eye.
He fills the doorway. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Perfectly tailored coat draped him like it was cut with his body in mind. His dress pants fall in sharp lines, his polo simple but expensive, the kind of understated wealth that whispers instead of shouts. I catch the glint of a watch on his wrist—sleek, rare, worth more than I’ll make this year. His hair is brown, perfectly imperfect, messy waves that fall across his forehead like they don’t care who’s looking. Everything about him is calculated. Intentional.
He looks up, and I meet his eyes. Gorgeous. Light gray. Sharp, cold, and steady. They flick to me the way a match catches flame, leaving heat behind. He looks at me with the same admiration that the others do. But there’s something else in this haze. A certain heat that sears my skin.
Or wait…is it just me?
I’ve seen men like this before. Old money, polished confidence, Masculine steel in their posture and their accents. First class is full of them. But none of them has ever branded himself into me the way this one does.
His gaze lingers, a smirk curling his mouth like he already knows me. Like he knows everything I’m thinking.
“Welcome aboard,” I say, steady, smooth.
“Thank you.” His voice is low, touched with an accent, smooth in a way that almost feels dangerous. Russian. His tone makes the words sound less like courtesy and more like a private exchange.
“May I see your boarding pass?”
He doesn’t hand it over right away. Instead, he watches me, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, as though he’s considering whether to obey. Finally, he slips the card between two fingers and offers it lazily. His hand is steady, his expression unreadable.
“3C,” I say, glancing at it. “This way, please.”
I turn, guiding him down the aisle. My heels click softly against the carpet, my smile practiced and perfect. I can feel him behind me, the weight of his presence like static in the air.
