“What? No.”
“I wasn’t asking.”
A startled laugh escapes before I can help it, and I shake my head, standing taller. “Your cockiness won’t take you anywhere.”
Lev doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t argue. He only laughs, low and warm, like he’s already won. “We’ll see.”
And then, as though I’m dismissed, he picks up the crystal flute of champagne and drinks. Smooth, unbothered, certain.
I move on, but the echo of his words trails after me, clinging to my skin like the faintest turbulence beneath a smooth flight path.
The hours pass in measured beats—service trays, refilled glasses, whispered requests. The kind of rhythm I know by heart. And yet tonight, something is different.
Everywhere I go, I feel it. His gaze. Not obvious, not crude—Lev Rusnak doesn’t look like the type who stares. But I sense it, steady as gravity, each time I move through the cabin. A glance over the top of his glass. A flick of gray eyes when I lean to tuck a blanket for another passenger. The kind of attention that lingers, even when I pretend not to notice.
After the mental push and pull between us, he signals me again several hours later. As I approach him again, he tips hishead as though he’s been waiting. “Tell me, Sasha,” he says, his voice pitched low enough that it feels meant only for me, “is this what you always wanted to do?”
I blink, caught off guard. Most men in his position would lead with something predictable—you’re beautiful, what’s your number, come to my hotel. But he studies me like I’m more than a uniform. Like there’s something worth uncovering beneath the surface.
“I’m very good at what I do,” I reply smoothly, sidestepping the question as I pour his champagne.
His mouth curves, amused. “Yes. You are. Better than anyone I’ve seen on a flight.”
It’s too much. Too observant. Compliments on my looks, I know how to handle. They slide off me like water. But this—this prying into who I am, this recognition of competence—lands somewhere I don’t expect.
“Thank you,” I say crisply, stepping back, retreating into professionalism.
I walk away from him, and he doesn’t call me back. Just silence. And somehow that unsettles me more.
Something about Lev’s self-assured, predatory charm slides past my defenses, bypassing the walls I’ve built brick by brick. I feel the strange tug of it in my chest, the part of me that knows better and yet can’t look away. He’s just some rich bastard, I remind myself, the type who sees women like me as passing entertainment. But he isn’t acting like it. Not with his questions. Not with the way he looks at me.
A hand lifts from across the aisle. Another passenger.
I swallow a sigh. This one I’ve been avoiding. His gaze has been crawling over me since boarding, oily and unashamed.
As I step closer, his eyes drop instantly to my chest, and the smile I paste on nearly cracks at the edges.Professional, Sasha. Always professional.
“How can I help, sir?” I ask, keeping my tone even.
“You can start,” he says, lips curving in something too smug to be called a smile, “by accepting a compliment. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
I school my face, manage a polite, “Thank you.” Then, I ask, “Is that all?” already knowing it won’t be.
His grin widens. “Not quite. How about your number?”
The mask stays in place. Polite and untouchable. “No,” I say softly, kindly even, because years in this job have taught me how to shut a door without slamming it.
I turn to leave—
And then a shadow brushes past me.
Lev.
He strides by with an ease that feels deliberate, his presence eclipsing the man in the seat without so much as a glance in his direction. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t slow, doesn’t need to. The air shifts in his wake all the same.
I don’t wait to see where he’s going. I keep walking, straight down the aisle, and slip into the narrow safety of the bathroom.
Only when the door clicks shut behind me do I let the smile fall. My reflection in the mirror stares back—composed, polished, perfect. But beneath it, my pulse won’t calm.
