I shoved the phone screen right up to the fat guard's nose, the brightness making him flinch back.
"See that? AA405, first class. Boarding in twenty minutes." I lifted my chin, staring at his shocked face with almost cruel satisfaction. "Now, not only am I a legal paying passenger, I'm a valued guest of your crappy airline. Take your walkie-talkie and get out of my sight!"
The guard froze, his face flushing red. He looked atthe twelve-hundred-dollar electronic boarding pass on my phone, then at my disheveled appearance, as if his ego had taken a massive hit.
"You crazy bitch..." He bit down hard, actually reaching for my phone. "I suspect you're using a stolen credit card. Come with me!"
Fuck the world!
As his hand closed in on my phone, I gritted my teeth, bracing for a fight.
But then—
"This is probably the most pathetic comedy I've witnessed all day."
A deep, gravelly male voice suddenly rang out above my head. It wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable penetration, like bass speakers pressed directly against my eardrums, radiating intense pressure.
Both the guard and I froze, looking toward the voice.
That one glance locked me in place.
Standing a few steps away was a man. A man so tall he blocked out all the overhead light.
He had to be at least six-three, shoulders broad as a wall. His perfectly tailored charcoal suit outlined his powerful muscle definition, yet his waist was cut tight—like he'd been sculpted by golden ratio proportions.
My gaze traveled up his crisp dress pants, gliding over his immaculately knotted patterned tie, finally landing on his face.
My breath caught involuntarily.
It was an aggressively handsome face. Jawline sharp enough to draw blood, nose high and straight, lips curved in a natural, cold mockery.
Most striking was his hair—pure silver, gleaming with cold metallic luster under the airport's fluorescent lights.
And those eyes—storm gray, like gathering tempests, looking down at me. His gaze held no warmth whatsoever, only suffocating scrutiny.
"Sir, we're handling a disruptive individual here. Please keep your distance." The guard was clearly intimidated by this man's aura, his tone involuntarily weakening.
The silver-haired man completely ignored the guard. He strode toward me, and that scent—a mix of cedar, premium leather, and the faintest trace of gunpowder—invaded my breathing space instantly.
"Her aesthetic choices are certainly catastrophic, sir." The man raised one eyebrow slightly, his thin lips parting as that low voice emerged again, this time laced with undisguised sarcasm. "But to my knowledge, bad taste isn't a federal crime in America. Unless you want to face a lawsuit for manhandling a woman."
The guard froze, face burning red. He glanced at the man's obviously expensive attire, then at me, finally muttering something into his walkie-talkie before slinking away.
I stood rooted, my heart still pounding from the confrontation and this man's sudden appearance. Logic told me I should thank him, but I'd never been good at dealing with condescending arrogance.
"Don't expect gratitude, Designer Suit." I lifted my chin, meeting those oppressive gray eyes without backing down. "I could've handled that idiot myself."
He didn't move, just methodically scanned me up and down with those storm-gray eyes. The look wasn't how you'd examine a woman—more like appraising damaged goods discarded on the roadside.
Then his gaze stopped at the top of my head, and the smirk on his lips widened.
"You certainly could've handled him yourself." He spoke, his tone dripping with infuriating contempt. "But when I see a woman running around in public making a scene while wearing a bright pink plastic penis-shaped novelty headband, I feel that, as someone with even a basic sense of aesthetics, I have a civic duty to intervene."
What?
I froze for a second, instinctively reaching for my head.
My fingers touched a hard plastic headband with two springs attached. As I moved, those little things bounced cheerfully.
