9. Sloane
SLOANE
“You think I’m so easy you can have me anywhere?”
I know I’ve hurt him the moment the words leave my mouth.
Not because Vadim flinches. Men like him probably train themselves out of visible reactions before they’re old enough to shave, and his face remains composed enough that I could almost convince myself he doesn’t care.
His hand drops completely away from me. For the first time since he followed me into the galley, there’s a deliberate amount of space between us.
He looks at me for several seconds before answering.
“No.”
The simplicity of it somehow makes me angrier. I fold my arms around myself and look away because if I keep staring at him, I’m either going to cry or do something equally humiliating, like apologize when I’m still not entirely sure which part of this I’m sorry for.
Vadim doesn’t move closer. “I don’t think you are easy.”
“Good.”
“I think you wanted me.”
I turn back immediately. “That is exactly the kind of thing a man says when he wants to make himself feel better.”
His expression changes slightly. “I’m not trying to make myself feel better.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“Sloane.”
“No, really, this is convenient for you. You follow me back here, I let you touch me, and now we can both pretend that because I wanted it, none of the rest matters.”
“What rest?”
I laugh once under my breath. “The fact that you are the client. The fact that I’m working. The fact that I need these assignments and you probably have enough influence to make sure I never get another one if I make this uncomfortable.”
His brows draw together. “I would never do that.”
“You say that now.”
“I’m saying it because it is true.”
“You own half the companies involved in getting people onto these aircraft.”
“Not half.”
I stare at him. He has the sense not to finish that thought.
For a few seconds, neither of us speaks. Then Vadim exhales and rests one hand against the edge of the counter behind him, still keeping his distance.
“You are allowed to regret what happened.”
The words catch me off guard.
He continues before I can interrupt. “You are allowed to decide this is a mistake, or that you don’t want it to happen again, or that you want nothing from me beyond employment. None of that changes what I think of you.”
My throat tightens.
I hate that he’s being reasonable now. It would be easier if he were arrogant. Easier if he laughed or dismissed me or said something cruel enough that I could walk away cleanly.
Instead, he looks at me with a restraint that makes the whole thing feel worse.
“You don’t have to comfort me.”
“I’m not comforting you.”
“You are.”
“I’m telling you that you have misunderstood me.”
“Maybe I don’t care.”
That one lands. His face still doesn’t change much, but something in his eyes closes.
I know I should stop. I don’t.
“I need to finish my work.”
Vadim studies me for another moment.
Then he nods. “Fine.”
There’s no anger in it. That somehow makes me feel smaller.
He turns toward the galley entrance.
I speak before I can stop myself. “Are you going to tell the agency?”
He looks back. “Tell them what?”
“That I’m unprofessional.”
His expression becomes unreadable. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you are not.”
I swallow. That should make me feel better, but it doesn’t.
He leaves without saying anything else.
I remain where I am for a long time after he’s gone, listening to the low hum of the engines and feeling the remains of everything that happened between us settle into something heavy and deeply embarrassing.
I don’t see him alone again for the rest of the flight. When I enter the cabin, he is professional, painfully so. He asks for nothing he doesn’t need. He doesn’t look at me longer than necessary. He doesn’t come near the galley again.
By the time we land, I’m convinced I have ruined whatever this was and possibly my new career along with it.
I tell myself that is probably for the best.
Nearly three weeks have passed since my first private assignment, although it feels longer when I count time in aircraft instead of days.
Three flights with Vadim Chernovar have somehow become enough for me to recognize the sound of his voice from the other end of a cabin, know exactly how he takes his coffee, and make several decisions that would have horrified the version of me who first walked onto his aircraft with my handbag sitting unsecured beside the galley.
I spend the next several days checking my phone too often. There are no more assignments. Of course, I’ve lost my only source of income thanks to my lust and stupidity.
By day four, I stop pretending I’m not worried.
Private aviation was supposed to be the thing that kept me afloat after losing the airline job, and I have somehow managed to turn my first few assignments into a series of increasingly questionable decisions involving one of the most powerful clients on the roster.
Then my phone rings. The staffing agency.
I answer so quickly I nearly drop it. “Yes?”
The coordinator gives me an international assignment departing the following afternoon. I accept before she finishes listing the rate. Only after the call ends do I realize my hands are shaking.
Camille is already inside the aircraft when I arrive, standing in the galley with a clipboard tucked beneath one arm while she checks a row of glasses against the light, and the sight of her gives me such an immediate rush of relief that for one ridiculous second I almost cross the cabin and hug her.
I stop myself before I can embarrass both of us.
She looks up, recognition softening her face almost immediately. “Sloane.”
“Thank God.”
Her eyebrows lift, and then she smiles in a way that makes it clear she understands I mean it. “That bad?”
“You have no idea.”
I set my bag down long enough to shrug off my coat, then immediately pick it back up again and store it properly because the memory of Vadim noticing it beside the galley wall on my first flight is apparently going to follow me until I die.
Camille notices that too. Her mouth twitches. “You learned.”
She laughs quietly and returns to the glassware while I start checking the catering inventory beside her, and for the first few minutes I let myself settle into the familiarity of working with someone I already know, grateful for the simple comfort of not having to learn another new attendant’s habits while pretending I’m not wondering whether Vadim is going to be on this flight.
I still don’t know if he is. The assignment details gave me the aircraft, destination, reporting time, and crew information, but nothing about the passengers, and I spent the entire drive here refusing to speculate because the last time I saw Vadim I accused him of treating me like a woman he could have whenever he wanted and then spent the rest of the flight wondering whether I had just destroyed my job.
The agency calling me again should be enough to tell me I haven’t, but it doesn’t stop the worry completely.
I glance toward the cockpit while Camille is making a note on the catering sheet. The door is open. A man steps out.
My stomach drops.
Warren Hale.
For a second, neither of us says anything.
He looks exactly as I remember him: immaculate uniform, carefully arranged hair, wedding ring still sitting on his finger as though it has never prevented him from acting like a man with no wife at all.
His gaze lands on me. Then stays there.
“Well,” he says. “Look who’s back.”
I straighten. “Captain.”
His mouth curves in that slow, unpleasant way I remember too well. “I was beginning to think private aviation scared you off.”
“No.”
“Good.” The word carries more meaning than it should.
Camille’s attention shifts toward us, and I’m grateful for it because Hale seems to notice her watching and changes his posture slightly, becoming more professional without actually moving away.
“Everything ready?”
“Almost,” Camille says.
He nods and looks at me again. “You settling in better this time?”
“Yes.”
“That first flight was a little eventful.”
I hold his gaze. “So I recall.”
For one moment, something passes through his expression. It’s not embarrassment, certainly not apology. Something closer to resentment.
Then the copilot calls his name from inside the cockpit and Hale steps back. “We’ll talk later.”
I keep my face blank. “No need.”
He stares at me for half a second before turning away.
The cockpit door closes behind him. Only then do I realize my shoulders have tightened.
Camille exhales quietly. “I didn’t know he was on this rotation.”
“Neither did I.”
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
The answer comes automatically, and Camille looks at me long enough that I know she doesn’t believe it completely. I don’t blame her.
I tell myself Hale is only the captain. I’m not alone with him.
Camille is here. There are other crew members. There will be passengers.
He has done nothing yet.
That last word bothers me.
Yet.
I turn away before the thought can develop further and continue preparing the cabin.
The work helps. It always does. There’s comfort in routine, even inside aircraft that cost more than entire buildings, because glasses still need polishing, linen still needs arranging, temperatures still need checking, and passengers still expect everything to appear effortless no matter what’s happening behind the galley curtain.
I’m setting out the final service items when I notice something on the forward crew seat.
A small box.
I stop. It’s dark brown, wrapped with a narrow gold ribbon and placed exactly in the center of the cushion. For a moment, I assume it belongs to Camille. Then I notice the small folded card tucked beneath the ribbon.
My name is written on it.
Camille looks over. “What?”
I pick up the box. “This was here when you arrived?”
She looks at it more carefully. “I don’t think so.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“Open it.”
I glance at her. “You say that very casually.”
“It’s chocolate, not an explosive.”
“You don’t know that.”
She gives me a look.