I wonder if he’s thinking about it too. About my kitchen. About how close we’d been. About how nothing has really been resolved since then; we’ve just quietly set it aside in favour of more pressing concerns. Like the state Asher was in just an hour ago and—
‘Oh shit,’ I say suddenly. ‘I forgot about France.’ I’m not entirely sure how I managed to forget about the thing that’s been dominating my thoughts since I left my father’s office this morning, but I suppose seeing Asher so close to breaking down took precedence in my mind and shoved all thoughts of ruining our fathers’ plan to the very bottom of my priorities list.
‘Oh right,’ Asher says, blinking dumbfoundedly like he forgot as well. ‘I was wondering when I got that text…’
‘Sorry,’ I say with a sheepish grin. ‘I wanted to follow up sooner, but I got pulled in about a million different directionstoday. Long story short, thanks to our little show last night, my father’s planning on announcingusto his shareholders and board soon. He wanted to do it next week, actually.’
Asher looks alarmed. ‘Next week?’
‘Mhm,’ I hum. Some of my earlier irritation about this whole mess starts to dampen my mood. ‘Luckily I managed to convince him that we’re still too volatile for a hard launch and he agreed. Unfortunately, he thinks we still need to make one final show of being a solid couple before he can take it to the board.’
Asher’s silent for a moment, and then he says, the realisation dawning on him, ‘And he thinks you coming to the hotel launch next week is the perfect place for us to put on a show?’
I nod glumly. ‘Looks like it.’
Asher comes to an abrupt halt, turns to me, and grins. ‘Well then. Let’s give him a show.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEENImani
The moment the plane tilts upwards, I feel it.
That familiar, fluttery, weightless rush in my chest that happens every time I take off to a new destination. I’ve missed it more than I’d ever admit out loud.
It’s been months – 102 days but who’s counting? – since I’ve been in the air. Months since I’ve felt the familiar thrum of engines like a heartbeat through the soles of my shoes. Months since the world dropped away beneath me in that smooth, effortless climb that always feels a little bit like freedom.
And God, I’ve missed it.
‘Should I be worried?’ Sloane asks, peeking at me over the top of her sunglasses. She’s cocooned in a blush-pink blanket, a glass of champagne in one hand, and her seat already reclined further than technically allowed during take-off. ‘We’ve been airborne for thirty seconds and you look like you’re about to marry this plane.’
I grin into my own champagne flute. ‘Don’t tempt me. It wouldn’t be the worst marriage offer I’ve had recently.’
She snorts. ‘You’re ridiculous.’
‘I’m happy,’ I say simply.
And I am. I grew up on planes. Peregrine Airways has been practically stitched into my DNA since birth. My earliest memories are of cabin lights dimming to a warm gold, the soft rustle of attendants moving up and down aisles, and my father’s crisp voice telling me to sit up straight and look out the window as the plane touched down somewhere new.
But that was before he clipped my wings.
Now I’m here again, in seat 1A of a Peregrine Airways flight bound for France, drinking my way through the guilt and anger that comes from knowing the only reason I’m flying again is because my father ordered it.
Optics, he’d said.The board needs to see unity. You and Asher need to present as solid. Romantic. Happy.
Ugh. I gulp down the rest of my champagne and signal a flight attendant for another.
‘I’ll admit it,’ Sloane says, pulling me out of a potential spiral before I can slip into it. ‘As much as I am fully aboard the anti-Malcolm train—’
‘Appreciate it.’
‘He knows his shit.’
She has a point. Sloane is no stranger to luxury travel, but first class on a Peregrine Airways flight is a different world entirely.
Peregrine’s first class is built to rival palaces. Private suites gleamunder soft, golden lighting that shifts with altitude; the cream leather seat cushions are stitched with champagne-gold threads and recline into beds softer than the clouds outside. Polished wood panels glint faintly between curved partitions that rise for privacy at the touch of a button. The air smells faintly of oud and vanilla, the scent warm and expensive enough to seep into your bones and make you relax.
On one wall, an inlaid minibar glows amber, stocked with crystal decanters and tiny jars of caviar. A screen larger than should be possible for an aeroplane slides silently out of the panel in front of me. Even the windows are rimmed in brushed gold, each one paired with a plush velvet curtain instead of a standard shade.
The cabin crew glide up and down the aisle like a choreographed dance troupe, smiles all perfectly calibrated, voices soft and smooth enough to calm even the most nervous flyer.
