Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Adrien
Hours later, we’re on a private plane, returning home. I’d have given anything to keep Brie in Paris for the weekend, but too much still hangs over us. Duty came knocking early. She’s busy with her team, and my mood doesn’t match the success we had today.
It’s not lost on me that what began as a ploy has become a true opportunity.
I could continue the business Eddie Thorne started.
I could pick up where he left off—decide which secrets are worth selling, which sins deserve daylight.
The thought sits in my gut like good whiskey gone bad—warm, but burning all the same.
Tempting, like opportunities tend to be, but the costs are too high.
Moira believes I’m pledging allegiance. What I’m actually buying is time.
First, we need to follow the trail to Vasquez.
I owe that to Brie and to the senator. Second, I need Moira to provide her other sources within The Sanctuary.
And of course, I’ll hire KOAN to validate anything she shares.
She might have a history with my father, but I don’t have a history with her.
The Gulfstream’s cabin hums with quiet luxury as we level off over the Atlantic.
Muted amber light glazes the cabin walls; the air smells faintly of leather, eucalyptus, and Brie’s perfume clinging to my cuffs.
She’s claimed the conference area, her laptop open, phone pressed to her ear as she coordinates with her team.
I’ve retreated to the back of the cabin, nursing a scotch and staring out at clouds that mirror my mood—gray and turbulent.
Moira arranged the meeting with Elena, passing details through a burn-after-reading system that feels ripped from a spy novel—appropriate, considering what my life has become.
“We’ve been reviewing the planned meet location,” Brie says, ending her call and joining me on the leather sofa. “Very public, very safe for her.”
“And very observable,” I add, thinking of Gramercy Tavern, a place I’ve been but don’t frequent. It’s not monitored in the traditional sense—but it’s visible. Too many witnesses for anyone to act rashly. “That’s the point. She feels secure there.”
Brie curls into the corner of the sofa, studying my face. “You’ve been quiet since we left Paris.”
I take another sip of scotch, letting the burn distract from the knot in my chest. “Just processing.”
“Want to talk about it?”
The question hangs between us like the thirty-thousand feet of air beneath the plane.
“I keep thinking about what Moira said.” I set down the glass, turning to face her fully. “The truth is, Brie, I do understand my clientele. I’ve built my entire business around understanding what powerful people want, what they crave, the image they wish to project, what they’ll pay for.”
“It’s not the same thing as exploiting them.”
“No. But it puts me closer to the edge than I ever wanted to be.” I can feel the moral line blur even as I push forward.
“I created an environment where people are free to act without fear of exposure. I would most definitely never monetize indiscretions or base needs. Or so I thought? But isn’t that exactly what I’m doing by offering safe spaces? ”
Brie’s hand finds mine, her fingers intertwining in a gesture that’s becoming as natural as breathing. Skin to skin, it feels like confession granted absolution. “There’s a difference between providing safe spaces and violating trust.”
“It’s a fine line—one that’s easy to blur.
Because sitting in that room with Moira, listening to her explain how she operates.
.. It didn’t sound foreign. It sounded familiar.
” I lean back against the headrest, closing my eyes.
“My father built the family conglomerate by staying one step ahead of everyone. Learning that he did it by buying stolen competitive designs changes everything I believed about our family’s success.
About my own moral inheritance. Margot willingly continues the tradition.
I easily could have become them. That’s the part that unnerves me. ”
“Maybe you’re exactly who you choose to be.”
I open my eyes to find her watching me with an intensity that clenches my chest. “And who do you think I choose to be?”
“Someone who walked away from guaranteed success for independence. Someone who’s risking everything to protect people he’s never met from blackmail schemes.” Her thumb traces across my knuckles. “Someone who spent months searching for a woman who might not have existed.”
Turbulence jolts us, and she shifts closer, bringing with her that scent—strength wrapped in softness—a presence I found impossible to forget.
“What happens after this is over?” I ask quietly.
Will she disappear again? It’s possible. Probable, even. She’ll likely move—someone proved her apartment isn’t safe. She’s trained to elude pursuit. If she doesn’t want me to find her, I won’t. The thought makes my chest tight.
“What do you want to happen?”
“I want to wake up with you in the morning.” The words come easier than I expected.
“I want to argue with you about art for that empty wall in your apartment—or any wall in any place you choose to live. I want to take you to Paris properly.” I pause, gathering courage.
“I want you to meet my parents as the woman I’m falling in love with, after they’ve forgiven me.
I want time together without fearing I’ll wake and you’ll be gone. ”
For a moment I wonder if I’ve said too much, pushed too hard. Then she’s moving—shifting until she’s straddling my lap, hands framing my face, and relief floods through me.
“I want all of that too,” she whispers against my lips. “But are you sure? Because my work won’t change. There will be other cases, other days where I may need to carry a weapon—”
“Then I’ll learn to live with worry.” I cup her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones.
The idea of her in danger makes me want to lock her away somewhere safe, but I know better.
She’d never forgive me, and I’d lose what makes her extraordinary.
“Because the alternative—saying goodbye to you, living without you—is worse.”
Her lips meet mine—this kiss tastes like promises and possibilities, like the beginning of something that could actually last. Her hands work at my shirt buttons, and my gaze flits past her tousled blonde hair to the closed cockpit door.
There have been times—more than I’d care to admit—when I wouldn’t have given a damn if a flight attendant walked in mid-tryst. Discretion was their job, not mine. But this isn’t one of those times. This isn’t casual or careless. This is Brie, and she deserves privacy. Intention. Reverence.
I catch her hand, stopping her fingers but holding tight. “Come with me.”
I grab my scotch from the side table and lead her to the private suite at the plane’s rear. The door clicks shut behind us—solid, secure, ours. I set the drink on the nightstand and shrug out of my shirt, letting it fall carelessly.
With a tug on the hem of the top, she understands, and raises her arms, letting me lift the cashmere off, over her head.
Her travel sweater set gives easily under my hands, the cashmere sliding away to reveal lace and skin—an ensemble that destroys composure.
One simple push on the waistband, and the matching bottoms fall to her ankles, leaving my beauty in slips of the finest lace.
My fingers glide along her soft skin—the curve of her waist, the swell of her breast, her nipple taut beneath the delicate tapestry. I lean in, sucking and licking the sensitive skin of her throat, tasting the faint sweetness of her perfume mixed with something uniquely her.
The cabin tilts slightly with turbulence or maybe just the rhythm of my breathing. She backs up until her legs hit the bed and sits, immediately focused on my belt buckle with that intensity she brings to everything.
When she finally gets it undone—along with the snap and zipper—her triumphant smile nearly undoes me. My trousers fall to my ankles and I kick them aside while she reaches for my briefs.
She removes them with practiced efficiency, wraps her elegant fingers around my erection, and licks. The sight alone—Brie on her knees on my private plane, blonde hair falling forward, those crystal blue eyes looking up at me—could fuel fantasies for years.
I close my eyes, luxuriating in the heat of her mouth, the tight grip, the way she takes me deeper. It's exquisite. Perfect.
But that’s not what I want right now.
I pull back gently, tipping her chin up to meet my eyes. I press my thumb over her wet, swollen lips—gorgeous, ruined, mine—and urge her back onto the bed.
She spreads out on the satin coverlet, long blonde hair scattered around her, crystal blue eyes heavy-lidded with desire. She’s breathtaking—a daydream made flesh, better than any fantasy I’ve entertained.
Mine. Finally, properly mine.
I trail kisses up her body, taking my time with her stomach, her ribs, until I reach her breasts. I reach behind her to unsnap her bra—the clasp gives easily—and pull the lace away.
Bare before me, she’s perfect. I lavish attention on her breasts, tongue circling one nipple while my fingers work the other, and she arches into me with a soft gasp.
Then I reach for my scotch, fishing out a solid square ice cube. I hold it above her breast, letting one cold drop fall, watching her flinch and smile. Then I press the ice directly to her nipple.
She gasps—her back arching sharply off the bed.
I circle the ice slowly, watching her nipple tighten further, watching goosebumps race across her skin. When I replace the ice with my mouth—hot after cold—she moans my name.
The contrast makes her writhe. Cold shock, then the faint burn of expensive scotch still clinging to the cube, then the heat of my mouth sucking away the chill. She tastes like Macallan 25 and promises I’m desperate to keep.