14. Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fourteen
I Could Never Leave You
Luca
I can’t look at her.
Not for more than a few seconds.
My mind has been trapped inside the attack since I carried Simone away from that stage.
She’s alive.
The bullet only grazed her arm. The doctors cleaned the wound, closed it, and cleared her to travel.
None of that stops me from seeing her blood every time I blink.
Francis arranged the flight before we left the hospital.
The jet is supposed to take us to a remote estate in southern Europe, far beyond the reach of reporters and anyone tracking Simone’s public movements. From there, a helicopter will transfer us to the safe house.
Private land.
Limited access.
A security team already in position.
On paper, it’s the smartest option.
Simone hates it.
She hates being transported like cargo. Hates being told where she can go, who she can see, and how long she’s allowed to remain there.
But after someone entered a secret venue with a rifle, Francis and I agreed that removing her from the city was necessary.
He didn’t blame me for what happened.
That might have been easier.
Instead, he put one hand on my shoulder and told me I saved his daughter’s life.
He has no idea how little comfort that offers.
Simone sits several seats away, curled toward the window with her injured arm resting carefully across her stomach.
Dark glasses cover her eyes. Her jaw moves slowly as she chews gum and stares into the night beyond the glass.
She hasn’t spoken since leaving the hospital.
The silence between us is tight and awkward.
Whenever I shift, I feel her attention move toward me.
She looks away each time I turn.
She keeps watching.
I keep pretending not to notice.
But every glance presses against something bruised inside me.
Bran tried to reason with me before we boarded.
Security had controlled the venue. The guest list had been vetted. The building had been swept. The shooter found an access route no one knew had been compromised.
I spotted the weapon.
I reached Simone.
I got her out alive.
None of that matters.
I should have seen the shooter sooner.
I allowed myself to become distracted by her performance.
By her.
I watched Simone beneath those lights and forgot, for several unforgivable seconds, that the room contained anything else.
Then the gun fired.
The sound lives inside my skull.
So does the image of the blood running down her arm.
It wasn’t just a graze.
Not to me.
I failed to stop the bullet from touching her.
I won’t fail again.
Simone’s head rests against the window now. Her hair falls in tangled waves around her face, and her lips part slightly as she fights sleep.
She must be exhausted.
She spent hours rehearsing, performed, survived an attack, received treatment at the hospital, fought with her father, and boarded an international flight without being given time to process any of it.
I wonder whether her arm is still hurting.
Whether she’s frightened.
Whether she’s grieving the show she worked so hard to create.
I want to tell her it was beautiful.
That watching her perform changed something in me.
That her fans didn’t adore her because she was Francis Rochefort’s daughter.
They adored her because she was Simone.
But I remain silent.
There are boundaries between us.
Wide ones.
Necessary ones.
Whenever I forget that, I lose control.
The fact that I’m about to live alone with her at a secluded estate makes maintaining those boundaries considerably more complicated.
Still, I know what I need to be.
Her shadow.
Her protector.
Her safety matters more than whatever is happening inside my chest.
The next time I glance over, she’s asleep.
Her head has fallen at an angle that will punish her neck when she wakes.
The seat belt remains fastened across her lap.
I leave my seat and approach quietly.
A small pillow rests unused beside her. I lift it and ease it between her head and the window.
Simone shifts.
Her face turns toward me, and her forehead brushes my throat.
I freeze.
Her soft breath moves over my skin.
Strawberry perfume and the rose scent of her shampoo fill my lungs.
Every reckless part of me wants to stay there.
To bury my face in her hair.
To hold her until she wakes.
Instead, I carefully guide her head onto the pillow.
My hand lingers near her cheek without touching it.
Then the plane shudders.
The violent movement throws me against the seat.
Simone wakes with a startled gasp.
Her sunglasses slide down her nose as she looks up and finds me standing over her.
“What’s happening?”
“Stay belted.”
I turn toward the cockpit.
“I’m checking.”
The aircraft drops sharply.
My shoulder slams against the partition. Overhead compartments spring open, sending a leather bag and several loose objects crashing into the aisle.
Simone grips the armrest with her uninjured hand.
“Luca.”
The fear in her voice stops me.
Another tremor rolls through the cabin.
The lights flicker.
Then the pilot’s voice breaks through the intercom.
“We’ve experienced a critical systems failure.”
His breathing is too loud.
Too fast.
“We’re losing altitude. Brace for emergency landing.”
The transmission cuts off.
I abandon the cockpit and move back toward Simone.
The jet pitches hard to the right, forcing me to brace one hand against the seats as I cross the cabin.
Her fingers fumble at the belt.
I drop in front of her.
“Leave it fastened.”
“I wasn’t trying to take it off.”
Her hands are shaking.
“I was checking it.”
I pull the strap tight across her hips and inspect the buckle.
“Good.”
The engine makes a grinding noise that vibrates through the floor.
The jet drops again.
Simone’s eyes widen.
“I think we’re going to die.”
“We’re not.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
It’s a lie.
But she needs certainty, so I give it to her.
I kneel in the narrow space in front of her and hold her face between my hands.
“Look at me.”
She does.
“Keep your head down. Protect your injured arm. When we land, you wait for my instructions.”
Her breathing comes in fast, shallow bursts.
“Can you do that?”
She nods.
The plane tilts.
Trees appear through the window beneath us, close enough that I can distinguish individual branches.
Simone closes her eyes.
Then she opens them again.
“Fuck it.”
Before I can respond, she catches my face and kisses me.
The contact shocks every thought from my mind.
Her lips press hard against mine.
Fear.
Desperation.
Five years of things neither of us knows how to say.
I kiss her back before sense returns.
Then I force myself to pull away.
Her eyes are wide. Color floods her cheeks.
“Just in case,” she says.
“In case of what?”
“We die.”
“We aren’t dying.”
“Okay.”
She nods too quickly.
“You keep saying it, so I’m choosing to believe you.”
Another violent drop nearly tears me away from her.
I grip the armrests on either side of her.
I should return to my own seat.
There isn’t time.
“Brace!”
The pilot’s warning barely reaches us over the screaming engines.
I wrap my body around Simone as tightly as the space allows.
The world tips sideways.
Metal shrieks.
The first impact snaps my head backward.
Branches and debris whip past the windows.
Then something strikes the fuselage with enough force to tear the cabin apart.
Simone’s name is the last thing in my mind before everything goes black.
Smoke.
Hot metal.
The acidic burn of fuel in my throat.
I force my eyes open.
Pain pulses through the back of my skull and down my spine. My ribs protest when I breathe.
Something warm rests against my chest.
Simone.
Panic cuts through the haze.
I find the pulse beneath her jaw.
Steady.
I release a breath that hurts.
She’s unconscious, but she’s alive.
“Simone.”
No response.
I check her pupils, then sweep my hands carefully over her head, neck, shoulders, and limbs.
A shallow cut marks her temple. The dressing around her upper arm is stained but intact.
Nothing appears obviously broken.
The position of our bodies suggests I took most of the impact when the seats tore loose.
Good.
Pain I can manage.
Her injuries are the only ones that matter.
The cabin is partially open to the sky.
One side of the fuselage has split, leaving twisted metal and broken seats scattered across the ground.
Sunlight filters through trees beyond the wreckage.
The smell of fuel grows stronger.
We need to move.
I unfasten Simone’s belt and lift her.
My ribs scream.
I ignore them.
The nearest emergency exit is warped but open enough to force through. I carry her beyond the trees and lower her onto a patch of sand well away from the aircraft.
Then I return.
Every instinct warns me not to enter the wreckage again.
But surviving the crash won’t matter if we have no water, medical supplies, or way to signal for help.
I locate the emergency case beneath a broken cabinet.
Inside are several sealed water pouches, a compact first-aid kit, thermal blankets, flares, a flashlight, and a hand-crank emergency radio.
The radio casing is cracked.
I take it anyway.
My phone lies beneath a collapsed seat, screen shattered and frame bent almost in half.
Useless.
I retrieve my weapon and two spare magazines from beneath a section of torn paneling.
Then I check the cockpit.
The pilot’s seat is empty.
The harness hangs loose.
No blood.
No body.
The forward exit is open.
Outside, one clear set of footprints leads from the cockpit toward the trees.
The pilot survived.
And left us here.
My instincts sharpen.
This wasn’t an accident.
The aircraft was inspected before departure. The pilot’s credentials cleared Francis’s aviation team. The route was confidential.
Someone with access arranged this.
The same person may have compromised Simone’s performance.
The smell of fuel intensifies.
I grab the survival case and get out.
Simone begins to stir as I reach her.
Her eyelids flutter.
She groans as I lift her again.
“Easy.”
Her arms slide weakly around my neck.
She looks down at herself.
Her black performance outfit is torn and smeared with dirt and soot.
“For fuck’s sake,” she croaks. “This is Chanel.”
Relief nearly makes me laugh.
“You survived a plane crash, and that’s your first concern?”
“It was custom.”