Chapter 2
two
. . .
Adrian
I scan the flight manifest one more time for this last leg of the trip to Singapore, confirming what I already know. One jet. Two passengers—Elle and myself.
A clean, efficient twelve hours were planned for travel for the tech summit. The first half down, last stretch to go. No distractions, just uninterrupted time to review the presentation deck and iron out any inconsistencies.
The way I like it. The way I arranged it. My schedule exists for a reason, and that reason is control.
Control is efficiency. Efficiency is success.
So when I follow Elle up the metal stairs into the jet’s cabin and see Caleb Rios lounging with a whiskey in his hand and Miles Harrington scowling at his tablet, something dangerously close to rage floods my system.
Elle freezes so abruptly I nearly collide with her back. Her slim figure tenses, shoulders rising slightly—a defensive posture I’ve catalogued countless times in boardrooms.
I don’t need to see her face to know her expression has shifted from professional composure to barely concealed shock.
“What the hell is this?” I keep my voice low, meant for her ears only, but in the confined space of the jet cabin, it carries.
Caleb looks up, flashing that insufferable grin that’s helped Synercom poach two potential clients from us last quarter. “Well, if it isn’t the illustrious Adrian Cole.” He raises his glass in mock salute. “And the ever-efficient Ms. Park. Welcome aboard.”
Miles doesn’t bother looking up from his tablet, but his jaw tightens—the only indication he’s aware of our presence at all. Typical Harrington, acting like everyone else is merely an inconvenience to be tolerated.
Elle remains motionless, a statue in a black silk blouse. I place my hand on her shoulder, guiding her forward so I can fully enter the cabin and close the door. Her skin is warm beneath the fabric, and I remove my hand immediately, unsettled by the brief contact.
“There must be some mistake,” I say, addressing no one in particular while scanning the cabin for the flight attendant.
“No mistake,” Miles finally speaks, his voice as flat and unwelcoming as his expression.
“Charter company overbooked. All commercial flights to Singapore are full because of the tech summit. So, we’re sharing this jet.
” He delivers this information with the enthusiasm of someone announcing a terminal diagnosis.
Elle seems to regain her composure, straightening her spine in that way she does before entering difficult meetings. “I’ll contact our travel department immediately. There must be alternatives.” She reaches for her phone, but I place my hand on her wrist to stop her.
“Not necessary,” I say, making a split-second decision. “We’re already running behind schedule.”
Caleb’s eyes track the brief contact between Elle and me with unsettling interest. There’s something predatory in his gaze that makes me drop her wrist faster than I should.
“Schedule,” Caleb repeats, amused. “God forbid Adrian Cole arrives four minutes late to anything. The world might stop spinning.”
I ignore him, focusing instead on the practical aspects of this disaster.
The jet is spacious enough—four leather seats facing each other in the main cabin, with a small conference table between them.
A couch lines the far wall. Still, five hours in an enclosed space with two of my biggest corporate rivals and my assistant was not part of today’s plan.
“Well,” Elle says, breaking the tense silence with forced brightness, “I suppose we should get settled. We’ll be taking off shortly.”
She moves toward the seat furthest from Caleb, placing her bag on the table.
I notice her hands are steady despite the unexpected situation—one of the qualities that made her stand out from day one.
Elle Park doesn’t rattle easily, even when surrounded by three Alphas in a pressurized tube at 40,000 feet.
The flight attendant emerges from the cockpit, a professionally neutral smile plastered on her face. “Gentlemen, Ms. Park, we’ll be taking off in approximately ten minutes. Please make yourselves comfortable.”
“Three bitter corporate rivals trapped in a flying tin can,” Caleb muses after she retreats. “Sounds like the setup for a bad joke.”
“Or a murder mystery,” Miles mutters, finally setting his tablet aside.
Elle unpacks her laptop methodically, creating a workspace that effectively blocks out everyone else. I take the seat beside her, maintaining maximum distance from both Caleb and Miles. The seating arrangement feels like a chess game where no one wants to make the first move.
“So,” Caleb leans forward, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, “how’s NovaDyne’s third quarter looking, Cole? Still struggling with those supply chain issues in Malaysia?”
I feel my jaw clench. “Our quarterly projections are confidential, as you well know.”
“Just making conversation,” he shrugs, his grin widening. “Five hours is a long time to sit in hostile silence.”
“I prefer hostile silence to disingenuous small talk,” Miles interjects, earning a glare from Caleb and a fleeting look of approval from me. Perhaps Harrington isn’t completely intolerable.
The plane begins taxiing, the gentle movement signaling our imminent departure. Elle opens a spreadsheet, her focus absolute, or at least appearing to be. I know her well enough to recognize when she’s creating a buffer zone with work—a tactic I’ve employed countless times myself.
“Ms. Park,” Caleb pivots his attention, “how do you manage working for the most intense Alpha in the tech sector? Does he schedule your bathroom breaks too?”
Elle doesn’t look up. “Mr. Rios, I manage quite well, thank you. And unlike some companies, we actually meet our deadlines.”
I suppress a smile. Elle’s ability to deliver subtle barbs without breaking her professional demeanor is one of her more valuable skills.
Caleb laughs, genuinely amused rather than offended. “Touché. Though I think my team appreciates my more relaxed management style.”
“Is that what you call it?” I can’t help interjecting. “I thought it was called ‘winging it’.”
Miles snorts, then quickly disguises it as a cough.
The plane accelerates down the runway, pressing us back into our seats.
Elle’s hand grips the armrest between us, her knuckles whitening slightly.
I remember from her personnel file that she’s not fond of takeoffs—a rare admission of vulnerability in her otherwise flawless professional facade.
Without thinking, I place my hand over hers for the briefest moment, just enough pressure to acknowledge her discomfort without drawing attention to it.
Her eyes flick to mine, surprised, before returning to her screen.
The contact lasts no more than three seconds, but it’s enough to make me acutely aware of her scent—or rather, the almost complete absence of it.
Elle is meticulous with her blockers, more so than any Omega I’ve worked with.
Yet there’s always something that slips through—a hint of vanilla, perhaps, or coconut—so subtle that I sometimes wonder if I’m imagining it.
Today, as the plane levels off and my hand returns to my own armrest, I catch it again.
That whisper of sweetness beneath the clinical nothingness of high-grade blockers.
It’s distracting. Irritatingly so.
“So, the International Tech Summit,” Caleb breaks the silence again once we’ve reached cruising altitude. “I hear you’re unveiling the new neural interface prototype, Cole. Bold move, considering Synercom’s quantum processor hit the market last month.”
“Our neural interface operates on completely different principles,” I reply, keeping my tone even despite the obvious bait. “The comparison is irrelevant.”
“Nothing’s irrelevant in this industry,” Miles comments, his eyes sharp. “Titan Global’s investment portfolio just acquired a significant stake in neural interface research. Perhaps we should discuss potential overlaps.”
And there it is—the real reason Harrington is here. Titan Global doesn’t develop tech; they finance it, buy it, and sometimes bury it if it threatens their other investments.
“There’s nothing to discuss,” I say flatly. “NovaDyne’s research is proprietary.”
Elle shifts in her seat, crossing her legs. The movement is small, insignificant, yet it draws my attention like a flare in the night sky. A subtle wave of her scent reaches me—stronger this time, as though her blockers are struggling to contain it in the recycled air of the cabin.
I notice Caleb’s nostrils flare slightly. His eyes dart to Elle, then back to me, a knowing look spreading across his face that makes me want to throw him from the plane.
“Speaking of proprietary,” Caleb says slowly, his gaze lingering on Elle for a beat too long, “you’ve managed to keep quite the asset all to yourself, Cole.”
My back teeth grind together. “Ms. Park is NovaDyne’s executive assistant, not an asset.”
“Hmm,” Caleb hums, unconvinced. “Executive assistant who knows every detail of your business, handles your schedule with military precision, and somehow manages to keep you from throttling your board members. Sounds like quite the asset to me.”
Elle continues typing, seemingly oblivious to the conversation, but I catch the slight tightening around her eyes. She’s listening to every word.
“Your point?” I ask Caleb, though I already know exactly what he’s implying.
“No point,” he shrugs, faux-innocent. “Just observing that talent like Ms. Park’s is rare. If she ever decides NovaDyne is limiting her potential, Synercom has several positions that might interest her.”
Before I can respond with something appropriately cutting, Elle looks up, her expression professionally pleasant yet somehow arctic.
“While I appreciate the recognition of my skills, Mr. Rios, I’m quite satisfied with my current position. Though I’m sure your HR department would be thrilled to know you recruit executives’ assistants during shared flights.”
Miles actually smirks at that, and even I feel a surge of something dangerously close to pride. Elle’s verbal jabs are precision weapons, elegantly deployed and devastatingly effective.
Caleb raises his hands in surrender, but his eyes gleam with undiminished interest. “Just planting seeds, Ms. Park. Just planting seeds.”
The flight attendant returns to offer drinks. I request black coffee, Elle asks for water, Miles declines with a curt shake of his head, and Caleb, predictably, orders another whiskey.
“It’s 10 AM,” I comment as the attendant retreats.
“And somewhere in the world, it’s 5 PM,” Caleb counters cheerfully. “Besides, if I’m going to be trapped with you two fun-vacuums for five hours, I’m going to need some social lubricant.”
Miles makes a disgusted noise. “Must you phrase everything in the most objectionable way possible?”
“It’s a gift,” Caleb grins.
The exchange continues, verbal sparring that neither seems particularly invested in winning.
I tune them out, focusing instead on the presentation materials Elle has pulled up on her laptop.
But my concentration is fragmenting, my awareness of her presence beside me growing with each passing minute.
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing the curve of her neck where I know she applies extra blockers.
The gesture is innocuous, yet I find myself tracking it with inexplicable intensity.
When she reaches for her water, the sleeve of her blouse rides up slightly, exposing the delicate bones of her wrist. I can see the faint redness there—evidence of the industrial-strength blockers she uses, the kind that irritate the skin with their chemical harshness.
Something primitive and unwelcome stirs in my chest. A ridiculous, possessive impulse to tell her to ease up on the blockers when it’s just us working late. That I’m not some uncontrolled Alpha who can’t function in the presence of an Omega’s natural scent.
But that would be crossing a line I’ve carefully maintained since the day I realized I’d hired an Omega assistant without knowing it. A line that keeps our working relationship efficient, professional, and completely devoid of the biological complications that plague mixed-designation workplaces.
Elle glances at me, catching me staring at her wrist. “Is there something else you needed for the presentation?” she asks, voice low to avoid drawing Caleb and Miles into our conversation.
“No,” I reply, perhaps too quickly. “The materials are fine. But we should review the neural response data before we land.”
She nods, already pulling up the relevant files. Always three steps ahead, anticipating what I need before I fully articulate it. It’s what makes her invaluable as an assistant.
It’s also what makes her dangerous to my concentration.
“I’m going to rest my eyes for twenty minutes,” I inform her, needing distance from both her proximity and my unwanted awareness of it. “Wake me if anything urgent comes up.”
“Of course,” she says, not looking up from her screen.
I close my eyes, leaning back in the leather seat, but rest eludes me.
Instead, my mind cycles through the upcoming presentation, potential questions from investors, competitive angles Caleb and Miles might exploit.
And beneath it all, like an annoying background process consuming valuable RAM, runs my awareness of Elle beside me.
The soft sound of her typing. The occasional shift of her position.
The whisper of her scent that shouldn’t be detectable but somehow is.
It’s just biology, I remind myself. Basic, primitive biology that modern humans should be evolved enough to ignore.
Elle is an Omega. I’m an Alpha. My brain is hardwired to notice her, just as it’s hardwired to register potential threats like Caleb and Miles.
It’s nothing more than evolutionary baggage, useless in the corporate battlefield where intellect and strategy are the only weapons that matter.
I repeat this to myself as the plane continues its journey, a mantra of denial that does nothing to quiet the part of my brain that keeps cataloging every movement, every almost-scent, every small sound she makes.
It’s just biology. That’s all.
It has to be.