We reach his seat, wide and waiting. I gesture. “Here we are. If you need assistance with your luggage…”
He slips into the seat like it was built for him, movements unhurried, deliberate. His wrist shifts as he settles, and the light catches the watch there. He screams effortless wealth, and I’m like a deer caught in his headlights. I need to hurry the fuck away from this man.
I’m about to step back when he looks up at me again. “Champagne.”
Of course. Men like him always ask for champagne. “Right away,” I say, tone polished, professional.
I turn quickly, my heels clicking down the aisle, and busy myself in the galley. I shouldn’t notice the way my pulse has quickened, or how my hands move faster than usual as I pour the pale gold liquid into a crystal flute. He’s just another passenger. That’s all.
When I return, he’s lounging back, one arm draped over the armrest, legs stretched out in a way that takes up more space than it should. I bend slightly to set the glass on his tray.
His eyes dip, not to the champagne—but to my name tag. His mouth curves as he reads it aloud. “Sasha.”
The sound of it on his tongue makes me swallow before I can stop myself.
He sees it. Of course he does. His smile deepens, sharp and knowing. “That’s all,” he says lightly, reaching for the glass.
I turn, ready to retreat to safer ground, when his voice follows me, low and unhurried.
“For now.”
The words chase me down the aisle, curling warm against my skin long after I’ve stepped away.
For the first time in years, I feel rattled. Out of control. It’s so unlike me.
I hang back in the galley, fingers smoothing down the hem of my jacket, though it’s already perfect. My reflection wavers faintly in the stainless steel paneling—composed, polished, untouchable. That’s who I am. That’s who I’ve trained myself to be. And yet, one man with gray eyes and a smirk has me catching my breath like a rookie on her first flight.
The plane climbs, nose tipping upward as we ascend into a velvet-dark sky. The soft chime of the seatbelt sign fades, and the usual hum of first class resumes. Passengers adjust their seats, tuck blankets over their laps, order more drinks with hushed ease.
A hand lifts. A female passenger, two rows up. I gather myself and cross over, the professional mask sliding neatly into place. She’s seated dangerously close tohim, and I force my gaze to stay fixed on her, not drifting sideways where I can feel him sitting. Waiting. Watching.
The passenger murmurs her request to me, and I almost don’t hear it because I’m so distracted.
“Of course,” I say to the woman, adjusting her pillow, pulling a blanket into place. My smile is flawless, the practiced kind that puts people at ease. But my pulse betrays me, drumming against my throat as though it knows something I don’t.
And then—inevitably—I feel it. The weight of his stare. Heavy. Like I’m the only thing on this plane worth looking at.
I straighten, ready to turn, when out of the corner of my eye I see him lift a hand. A small, almost imperceptible gesture. A signal.
Summoning me.
I turn to leave, pretending like I don’t see his raised hand, when his voice stops me. Low. Sweet. My name on his tongue like it’s something rare.
“Sasha.”
It’s ridiculous how easily it catches me. How much I feel it. I draw in a breath before facing him, mask firmly in place. “Yes?”
He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t seem like a man who ever needs to. He leans back in his seat, one arm draped over the rest, posture loose in that effortless, aristocratic way only old money seems to master. Gray eyes fix on mine, unwavering.
Lev Rusnak. That’s the name I glimpsed on his boarding pass. It suits him. I don’t ever hold on to a passenger’s name. Thousands have come and gone. But this name—Lev Rusnak—sticks like a tattoo.
“What are you doing when we land?” he asks, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Not the first time I’ve been asked. Not the hundredth. But the certainty in his voice—like he’s not really asking at all—knocks me slightly off balance.
“I’ll be occupied,” I reply smoothly, stepping back into the practiced ease of my role. A polite smile. A line drawn.
Something shifts in his gaze, sharp amusement sparking there. His lips tilt, slow and deliberate. “No. You’re having dinner with me.”
