Chapter Twenty-Seven Asher
I haven’t seen her in sixteen days. Not that I’m counting. Except, of course, I am.
Sixteen days, three hours, twenty-four minutes, and an admittedly embarrassing number of unread messages from me sitting in her phone. At least, I have to assume they’re unread because I haven’t had a single response from her.
At first, I told myself to be patient. She needed space.
Time. Breathing room. France had blurred lines we weren’t supposed to cross, and we both knew it.
It would make sense for her to want distance after that – after us.
But the thing is, space has never felt this loud before.
Every time my phone buzzes, I hope it’s her.
Every time it isn’t, I feel like an idiot.
I know exactly why she’s avoiding me, and I can’t even blame her for it because we both know what’s coming.
Our fathers are gearing up to announce the merger and, alongside it, our engagement.
Of course she wouldn’t want to be anywhere near me right now.
Not when she’s about to be forced to do the one thing she’s been fighting against this whole time.
I drag a hand through my hair and stare out the window of my office.
If I had it my way, I’d take her far from here, to some quiet place by the water, where it could just be the two of us again.
My mind drifts back to the weekend in France like a reflex.
I’ve replayed it more times than I can count over the last sixteen days (three hours, thirty-nine minutes) and I crave it more than I’ve wanted anything else in my life.
I want to see her smile and laugh and look at me the way she did back in my suite – as if I wasn’t part of the problem.
A thought takes root in my mind. Maybe I can’t fix everything, but maybe I can remind her of what it felt like when it was just us in that suite. When the world fell away around us and it was just me and her.
The thought quickly turns from wishful thinking into something real and tangible. I reach for my phone and do something I don’t think I’ve ever done once in all my life.
I call my father.
I’ve sat in meetings with investors who could ruin the company with a single sentence. I’ve stood behind podiums, delivered speeches that have decided the fate of entire projects. I’ve even stared down my father when he was at his angriest.
Somehow, none of it compares to the feeling of waiting in the lobby of Imani’s building right now.
The concierge keeps giving me wary glances over the top of his computer screen, probably wondering why I’ve been pacing a dent into the marble floor for the last twenty minutes.
I don’t blame him. With my sweaty palms and the way I keep jumping and nervously looking over to the door whenever it opens and closes, I know I look suspicious.
I’m pretty sure the only reason he doesn’t call security to shoo me away is because he recognised my last name when I showed him my ID.
Being a Vouvalis does have it perks; I just wish it didn’t come with the strings attached.
Every tick of the clock above the concierge desk sounds louder than the last. My nerves are already stretched thin, pulled taut like I’m waiting for a verdict instead of a woman.
I’ve rehearsed what I’ll say at least a dozen times in my head, each version worse than the last. Currently I’m at: Hi, Imani, surprise, I’m here to kidnap you—temporarily, of course. Not exactly my smoothest opening line.
When the entrance doors slide open again, I turn too fast and relief hits me square in the chest. There she is. I knew I’d missed her, but I hadn’t realised just how much until this exact second. Just seeing her, even across the lobby, feels like finally coming up for air after weeks underwater.
The feeling of relief doesn’t last long though, because something is wrong. Just like that night at the film premiere, I can spot it almost immediately. Her shoulders are drawn tight, her eyes rimmed red, and there’s an exhausted stillness to the way she carries herself that makes my heart sink.
She looks like she’s sleepwalked through a natural disaster and only just realised what happened.
I try to catch her eye, but her gaze is fixed on her phone, her mouth pressed into a thin, unhappy line.
It’s only when she gets within a few steps of me that she finally looks up.
For a second, I think maybe she doesn’t even register that it’s me standing in front of her.
Then she blinks, like she’s coming back into focus.
Her lips part. ‘Asher?’
My carefully prepared lines are gone, wiped clean by the reality of Imani standing in front of me looking like she’s seconds away from breaking. I have to stop myself from closing the distance and pulling her into my arms right here, right now.
‘Hey,’ I say, trying to keep it light, easy, like nothing’s wrong and I haven’t spent the last sixteen days doing little else but thinking about her.
She cracks out a ghost of a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. ‘Hey.’
I offer her a soft smile, hoping it hides the panic thrumming under my skin. ‘Rough day?’ It’s a pathetic attempt at casual, but I’m desperate for anything that might make her laugh or at least remind her she’s not alone. Not anymore.
She gives me a quick nod. ‘Family stuff. It’s nothing. You don’t need to worry about it.’ She says it like a reflex, but I get the impression that Imani could be bleeding out and she’d still insist it’s just a scratch.
Don’t worry about it.
How can I not?
Every instinct in me screams to demand answers, to fix whatever has put that look on her face. But I stop myself. Imani doesn’t need fixing; she needs someone who will stand beside her while she finds her footing again.
I nod and, on realising that I’m not going to push, she relaxes ever so slightly.
‘What’re you doing here?’ she asks, then shakes her head and winces. ‘Sorry. That came out wrong.’
‘You’re good,’ I say with a soft laugh. ‘I know you weren’t expecting to see me.’
Her expression turns sheepish. ‘Sorry, I’ve just been—’
‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘You don’t need to explain yourself to me. I get it.’
‘Do you?’ she asks quietly. She’s still not looking at me.
I reach out and press my thumb against her chin, tipping her head gently so she meets my gaze. ‘I do. And I’m not here about that.’
‘Then why are you here?’ she presses.
‘I have something for you,’ I say, feeling a grin tug at the corner of my lips. ‘A gift.’
Imani arches a brow. There’s a flicker of curiosity there. ‘A gift?’ she repeats dryly.
‘You still keep a suitcase packed by your door, right?’
She blinks at me. Clearly that wasn’t the response she was expecting to her question. ‘Yes…’ she says slowly, dragging the word out until it’s at least three syllables too long.
I let her hang in that confusion for a beat longer, then offer a grin I hope is more reassuring than manic. ‘Good. You’re going to need it.’
An hour later and we’re pulling up at the private airfield on the edge of the city. Imani’s spent the entirety of the car journey here trying to wheedle the location for our final destination out of me, but I’ve managed to keep it a secret.
Barely.
‘Just give me a hint,’ she faux-whines as our car pulls into the airfield. ‘Just one hint and then I won’t ask again.’
I laugh because she’s said that at least four times already, each one more dramatic than the last. I briefly consider giving in.
Just a little. But the anticipation in her eyes is too good.
She looks like she wants to actually wrestle the answers out of my brain.
I want to drag this out for as long as I possibly can.
‘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 taking that?’ she finally manages.
I nod and she lets out an excited squeak. The car barely rolls 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!’
Now that surprises 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 watching her 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.
The urge to reach for her hand, or pull her into my side, is overwhelming but I force myself to just sit and let her have this.
This is for her, not for me. Our fathers, the merger, the relentless countdown to whenever they announce our impending engagement.
It all feels a million miles away, the kind of thing that can’t touch us if we just keep flying.
If she’s happy, even just for a few hours, then nothing else matters.