Three quick strides and I'm behind her just as she reaches for Jade's door handle, her phone raised, ready to slide the door open just enough for a quick photo of the sleeping celebrity inside.
I catch her wrist before she can touch the handle, my grip firm but controlled. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."
She startles violently, nearly dropping the phone as she whirls to face me. "I... I was just checking if Ms. Sinclair needed anything," she stammers, eyes wide with alarm and guilt.
"With your camera ready?" I keep my voice low but allow an edge of steel to creep in. "Interesting service technique."
Her face flushes deep red, visible even in the dim lighting. "It's not what it looks like."
"It looks like you were about to invade my client's privacy for a photo you could sell to the tabloids." I releaseher wrist but position myself between her and Jade's door. "How much do they pay for sleeping celebrity shots these days? Couple thousand? Enough to risk your job?"
She takes a step back, rubbing her wrist where I gripped it. "I wasn't going to sell it," she insists, though her eyes dart nervously down the corridor. "It was just for me, for my Instagram. Everyone does it."
"Not with Jade Sinclair they don't." I hold out my hand, palm up. "Phone. Now."
"You can't..."
"I can and I will. Your choice: hand over the phone so I can delete any photos you've already taken, or I wake the head flight attendant and your supervisor to explain why you're sneaking around first class with your camera at 3 AM."
For a moment, she looks like she might refuse or make a scene. Then, shoulders slumping in defeat, she places the phone in my hand.
I quickly check the camera roll, relieved to find no images of Jade among the selfies and tourist photos of Bali. "Consider this your only warning," I say, handing the phone back. "If I see you anywhere near this suite again during this flight, there will be consequences."
She nods, cheeks burning with humiliation, and hurries back toward the galley where the flight attendants gather between service rounds.
Once she's gone, I lean against the wall outside Jade's suite, adrenaline still coursing through my system. This is exactlywhy celebrities hire security, why Jade needs protection even in supposedly secure environments like a first-class cabin. The world feels entitled to pieces of her. Her image, her privacy, her life. Without permission or consideration.
"Mateo?" A soft voice speaks my name, and I turn to find Jade's suite door now partially open, her face appearing in the gap. Hair tousled, eyes heavy-lidded but alert. "Everything okay? I heard voices."
"Just a flight attendant," I say, trying to keep my voice casual. "I sent her away. Sorry if we woke you."
"I wasn't sleeping. I was watching a movie on my iPad." She studies my face for a moment, too perceptive for her own good. "Tell me the whole story," she says simply. "What really happened?"
I hesitate, weighing whether to tell her. She's had enough stress already without adding this incident to her concerns. But something about the direct way she's looking at me makes dishonesty impossible.
"She had her phone out," I admit. "Was going to try and take pictures of you."
Jade's expression doesn't change, but something in her eyes dulls, a weary resignation that breaks my heart a little. "Of course she was," she murmurs.
The quiet acceptance in her voice hits me harder than outrage would have. This is normal for her. Expected. Just another day in the life of Jade Sinclair.
"I handled it," I assure her. "She won'tbe back."
Jade nods, then steps back slightly, opening her door wider. "Come in for a minute?"
I freeze, caught off guard by the invitation. "I don't think that's..."
"Please," she says, the word soft but firm. "I'd rather not talk in the hallway."
Every professional protocol says I should decline. Entering her private space in the middle of the night crosses boundaries that exist for good reasons. But the vulnerability in her request overwhelms my training.
"Just for a minute," I agree, moving forward as she steps aside to let me enter.
Her suite is identical to mine, but somehow warmer, more lived-in after only a few hours. A cashmere throw is draped across the seat. A half-empty glass of water sits on the side table. The scent of her, something floral and clean that I've come to associate solely with her, lingers in the enclosed space.
She gestures for me to sit in one of the chairs while she perches on the edge of the bed, drawing her knees up to her chest in a posture that makes her look younger, more vulnerable than the composed professional the world sees.
"Thank you," she says after a moment of silence. "For stopping her."
