Chapter 1 – Sasha #2
After the mental push and pull between us, he signals me again several hours later. As I approach him again, he tips his head as though he’s been waiting. “Tell me, Sasha,” he says, his voice pitched low enough that it feels meant only for me, “is this what you always wanted to do?”
I blink, caught off guard. Most men in his position would lead with something predictable—you’re beautiful, what’s your number, come to my hotel. But he studies me like I’m more than a uniform. Like there’s something worth uncovering beneath the surface.
“I’m very good at what I do,” I reply smoothly, sidestepping the question as I pour his champagne.
His mouth curves, amused. “Yes. You are. Better than anyone I’ve seen on a flight.”
It’s too much. Too observant. Compliments on my looks, I know how to handle. They slide off me like water. But this—this prying into who I am, this recognition of competence—lands somewhere I don’t expect.
“Thank you,” I say crisply, stepping back, retreating into professionalism.
I walk away from him, and he doesn’t call me back. Just silence. And somehow that unsettles me more.
Something about Lev’s self-assured, predatory charm slides past my defenses, bypassing the walls I’ve built brick by brick.
I feel the strange tug of it in my chest, the part of me that knows better and yet can’t look away.
He’s just some rich bastard, I remind myself, the type who sees women like me as passing entertainment.
But he isn’t acting like it. Not with his questions. Not with the way he looks at me.
A hand lifts from across the aisle. Another passenger.
I swallow a sigh. This one I’ve been avoiding. His gaze has been crawling over me since boarding, oily and unashamed.
As I step closer, his eyes drop instantly to my chest, and the smile I paste on nearly cracks at the edges. Professional, Sasha. Always professional.
“How can I help, sir?” I ask, keeping my tone even.
“You can start,” he says, lips curving in something too smug to be called a smile, “by accepting a compliment. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
I school my face, manage a polite, “Thank you.” Then, I ask, “Is that all?” already knowing it won’t be.
His grin widens. “Not quite. How about your number?”
The mask stays in place. Polite and untouchable. “No,” I say softly, kindly even, because years in this job have taught me how to shut a door without slamming it.
I turn to leave—
And then a shadow brushes past me.
Lev.
He strides by with an ease that feels deliberate, his presence eclipsing the man in the seat without so much as a glance in his direction. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t slow, doesn’t need to. The air shifts in his wake all the same.
I don’t wait to see where he’s going. I keep walking, straight down the aisle, and slip into the narrow safety of the bathroom.
Only when the door clicks shut behind me do I let the smile fall. My reflection in the mirror stares back—composed, polished, perfect. But beneath it, my pulse won’t calm.
Because Lev Rusnak doesn’t just occupy space. He consumes it.
And whether I like it or not, he’s already consuming me.
It’s weird. Why am I getting attached to a passenger? This is a flight going from London to New York, and in a few hours, he’ll step off the plane, and I’ll never see him again.
So, what exactly is wrong with me?
I eventually leave the bathroom and glance down the aisle. His seat is empty. Fine. I don’t dwell on him. I don’t care.
The moment drags on in its usual rhythm. Drinks, meals, quiet requests. Lev Rusnak doesn’t return to his seat. I train myself not to look in his direction.
By the time the announcement comes through that we’re landing in Milan for a short layover, my focus is back where it belongs: on work.
We touch down smoothly, and passengers begin to gather their belongings. First class empties in its usual, orderly procession of designer luggage and hushed phone calls. Lev is still nowhere to be found.
I hang back with the crew, letting the flow of people pass. One by one, they file out until the cabin stands quiet again. I straighten the last seatbelt strap and smooth a pillow when movement catches my eye.
The cockpit door opens.
And out steps Lev Rusnak.
Not down the aisle like everyone else—but with the captain at his side, the two of them talking as though they’re old friends.
My jaw almost unhinges. What the hell was he doing in there?
The captain turns, voice booming with good humor. “Ladies and gentlemen, before we head off, I want you all to thank Mr. Rusnak here. He’s kindly offered to show the crew around Milan before we continue to New York.”
A ripple of surprise runs through the flight attendants. Excited glances. Stifled whispers. Someone even claps their hands together like it’s Christmas morning.
I just stand there, frozen.
Lev meets my eyes across the cabin. That same slow, self-assured smile spreads across his face, the one that feels less like a greeting and more like a claim.
I cross my arms, the corner of my mouth tugging upward despite myself. “Well, that’s a nice idea,” I say lightly, “but we don’t exactly have the time. Layover’s only a few hours. We’ll barely get out of the terminal.”
The captain’s smile widens, and he shakes his head. “Actually, that won’t be a problem. I already have confirmation from the airline. Mr. Rusnak has arranged for an extended layover.”
I blink. Once. Twice. The words don’t compute at first. Arranged? Extended?
Another attendant blurts out the question buzzing in all our heads. “But…what about the passengers? Won’t they complain?”
Before the captain can answer, a smooth, low voice does.
“They’ll be fine,” Lev says, stepping just slightly closer, his tone carrying the unhurried certainty of a man who never has to doubt himself. “When they find out their tickets are being fully refunded.”
Gasps. Wide eyes. A stunned silence hangs in the air, broken only by the hum of the engines cooling.
And then, like a finishing stroke, he turns his head toward me. Our eyes lock.
He winks.
The gesture is small. Subtle. But I feel it like a lightning strike, sharp and undeniable.
I know it in my bones. He did it for me.
And suddenly, for the first time in my career, I’m not sure if I’m the one in control anymore.
Is this what it means to be swept off your feet?
Lev walks off with the captain, their voices low and easy. He doesn’t spare me another glance.
The rest of the crew trails behind, excitement buzzing in the air like static.
By the time we step into the terminal, everyone is practically glowing. “Milan!” Maya squeals under her breath, tugging at my arm. “Can you believe it? A whole day in Milan. And free tickets for all those passengers? Who does that?”
“Someone with more money than Satan,” Tom mutters, adjusting his tie. He throws me a look, sly and too knowing. “And from the way he kept staring at you, I think we both know why he did it.”
Heat creeps up the back of my neck. I roll my eyes, quick to shake them off. “Please. He’s just another passenger. The kind that thinks the world revolves around him.”
“Yeah,” Maya grins, bumping my shoulder. “Except this one literally made the world revolve around you.”
Tom smirks. “He didn’t even blink when he dropped that refund line. Like—‘Sure, I’ll throw millions away if it buys me an extra hour with Sasha.’ Honestly, I’m impressed.”
I laugh it off, though it comes out a little thin. “You two are insufferable.”
But inside, the words snag. Because no matter how hard I try to brush it away, I can still feel the weight of that wink. The certainty in his eyes. The unspoken promise that he’s not done with me—not by a long shot.