‘No hints,’ I tell her. ‘I want to see your face when you figure it out.’
She opens her mouth, prepared to argue, but the car crests around a bend in the drive and the airfield suddenly comes into clear view. There, glittering in the afternoon sun, sits a dark, sleek jet on its own stretch of runway. The staircase is rolled out and the crew are standing to attention, waiting for us.
Imani’s mouth actually falls slack open. She stares at the jet, then at me. Back at the jet. Back at me.
For one perfect, stunned second, she’s completely speechless.
‘Is that—That’s not—Are we takingthat?’ she finally manages.
I nod and she lets out an excited squeak. The car barelyrolls to a stop before she’s unbuckling herself and shoving the door open to get a closer look.
I follow her out, and the look on her face is one I want to burn into my memory. She’s standing on the tarmac with her eyes wide, jaw slack like a kid seeing Disneyland for the first time.
She turns slowly, taking in every polished inch of the jet. The matte-black exterior gleams under the sunlight, the chrome accents throwing off flashes of gold. She spins back to me, disbelief stamped across her face. ‘You’ve got to be kidding. We’re not actually taking this are we?’
I grin. ‘We are.’
Her gaze flits between the jet and me again, like she’s trying to catch the trick. ‘No, you’re joking. Tell me you’re joking.’
‘I’m really not,’ I say, enjoying the show far more than I should.
She lets out a small, incredulous laugh and shakes her head. ‘You know what’s crazy? I’ve never actually been on a private jet before. Not even once!’
Nowthatsurprises me. ‘What?’
She shrugs, a faint blush rising to her cheeks. ‘My father’s rule. He says it’s bad optics for us to ask people to spend thousands on Peregrine Airways’ first-class seats if we don’t fly it ourselves. It always been commercial for us – first class, and obviously Peregrine first class is on a whole different level than most airlines, but still.’
‘Well,’ I say, gesturing towards the plane, ‘consider this an upgrade.’
Her excitement is infectious as we board. She’s practically vibrating as we’re greeted by the flight crew, and I can’t blame her. This jet is one of my father’s favourites and insane even by the standards of our social circle. The cabin itself is like something from out of a dream with cream leather seats that look too soft to be real, each one angled towards wide oval windows where the afternoon sun spills in like honey. There’s a bar gleaming at the far end of the cabin, glass shelves lined with bottles of champagne, whisky, and other spirits I can’t pronounce but know cost more than any rational person should ever spend on a drink. Between the seats, there’s a low walnut table topped with a vase of pale roses, and a spread that would make a Michelin chef weep.
Tiny porcelain plates are packed with smoked salmon blinis, truffle arancini, and neat little sandwiches with gold-tipped toothpicks. There’s a bowl of fat, glossy green grapes, slices of ripe mango, and an array of miniature pastries that smell faintly of butter and vanilla. A bottle of champagne is resting in an ice bucket beside two crystal flutes that glitter as the light catches them.
Imani’s eyes are wide. ‘This is ridiculous,’ she breathes, running a hand along the back of one of the seats. ‘Who even needs this much legroom?’
‘You say that now,’ I laugh, ‘but give it ten minutes and you’ll be ruined for commercial flights forever.’
She hums. ‘I think I might already be. Don’t tell my father, he’d be heartbroken.’ She grimaces as she mentions her father’s name. It’s only for a brief second, but I’m watchingher so intently, I don’t miss it. Before I have the chance to question it, she’s pasted a smile back onto her face like the little blip never happened.
She runs her fingers over the seats, still a little awestruck, and then turns on me, all narrowed eyes and barely restrained curiosity. ‘Okay, serious question,’ she says. ‘How did you even pull this off? You can’t just walk up to a private airfield and rent a jet like it’s a Lime bike. Who did you blackmail?’
I force myself to laugh and lift my shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. ‘I called in a favour.’
I don’t mention the part where the ‘favour’ involved swallowing my pride and asking my father to approve the use of one of the family jets. Or how I made up a whole story about luring Imani into matrimony with a grand gesture, just to grease the wheels and get him to agree.
We’re barely buckled in before the crew are gliding through the safety demo and prepping for take-off. Imani slips into the window seat, hands pressed to the armrests, nose practically squashed against the glass. I take the seat beside her.
‘Okay,’ she says, glancing over towards me with a side-eye that’s probably meant to be intimidating, except the effect is blown by how excited she still is. ‘Are you going to tell me where we’re going, or is this an ongoing hostage situation?’
I stretch out, crossing one ankle over my knee, and give her my best, most infuriating grin. ‘Nope.’
She groans, tossing her head back in a way that’s absurdly dramatic. ‘You’re the worst.’
The jet lurches forward and we’re off. For a split-second, there’s the familiar pressure in my chest – the one that always hits during take-off, right at the moment of leaving the ground, and then we’re airborne. I glance over at Imani. She’s angled her body towards the window and she’s staring out of it with wide, bright eyes.
She’s transfixed. She tips her head forward, lips parted in wonder as she watches the buildings shrink beneath us. It’s nothing like the Imani I found in the lobby, shoulders caved in on herself, eyes red and haunted. Right now, she looks… peaceful. Like maybe for a minute, the world and all its bullshit can’t reach her up here.
I want to stay up here forever, suspended with her between everything that’s gone wrong and anything that could possibly go right. I want to give her this: a pocket of peace, a slice of freedom, however long it lasts before our lives snap back into place and someone else decides what comes next.
