Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Vivienne
Maybe the world really was full of these goddamn coincidences.
The man stood in the aisle, one hand resting on the overhead bin, his suit crisp, his tie knot still perfectly in place. He looked at me with that lazy, self-assured expression, a smile playing at his lips. The kind of smile that had nothing to do with kindness—only that infuriating smugness.
"My memory hasn't declined to the point where I need strangers reminding me of things." I set the water cup back on the tray table and straightened my spine. "My boarding pass says it clearly—3D, window."
"Does it now?" He raised one eyebrow slightly. "Then your memory's clearly taken a beating from that hangover."
He didn't pull out his boarding pass. He just tilted his chin up slightly, gesturing toward the space above my head.
I clenched my teeth, my eyes involuntarily flicking upward.
The indicator panel below the overhead bin read: 3D, aisle. 3F, window.
I looked down at the seat I was currently occupying—the one pressed right against the window.
I'd taken the wrong seat.
Jesus Christ.
The first time in my life I'd dropped twelve hundred bucks on a first-class ticket, and I'd taken the wrong damn seat.
That surge of arrogance I'd reclaimed in the terminal evaporated instantly, like someone had dumped ice water over my head. I could even feel the blood boiling in my cheeks, heat crawling all the way to my ears.
I grabbed my purse and stood, trying to salvage what dignity I had left. "Excuse me."
He didn't move. One hand slipped into his pants pocket as he watched me with all the time in the world. "There's enough space between the seats. Just come through."
"You're blocking the aisle. How am I supposed to get through?"
"That's your problem."
I took a deep breath. Okay, Vivienne, you can do this. You just have to squeeze past him. Pretend he's an inanimate leather sofa.
I turned sideways, sucked in my stomach, and tried to minimize contact with his body as I attempted to slip through the narrow gap in front of him.
The plane shook slightly at that exact moment.
"Ah!" My heel caught on the edge where the carpet seams met, and my body tilted forward. My chest slammed directly into his.
Only a second. But his hand had already locked around my wrist, his other hand hovering at my waist. His palm was broad, rough, his heat searing through the cutout on the side of my dress and branding my skin.
Through the thin silk slip dress, I could feel the taut muscles of his thigh pressing against me through his suit pants.
"Careful."
His voice dropped low.
I looked up and met his eyes.
I saw clearly that his gaze wasn't on my face. It slid down along my collarbone, landing on the expanse of cleavage exposed by the movement, then settling on the generous curves of my waist and hips.
His expression changed. The mockery and teasing faded, replaced by something aggressive, a dark fire that felt like it could consume.
"How much longer are you planning to stay in my arms, little girl?" His voice was lower than before, rough with a dangerous magnetism.
I snapped back to reality, shoving against his chest like I'd been burned, and stumbled back into the aisle seat—3D. "Don't flatter yourself. I just lost my balance."
He let out a low chuckle, didn't argue, and moved past me with deliberate ease before settling into the window seat.
I stared hard at the seatback in front of me, my heartbeat refusing to settle.
That blind bastard Derek used to complain before he cheated that my body took up too much space, that I'd be perfect if I could just be model-thin like the girls in magazines.
But just now—I swear—this man sitting next to me, the one whose presence alone could make airport security back down, there was no disgust in his eyes. Not a trace. Only raw, primal, male desire.
The plane started taxiing. I took several deep breaths, forcing myself to calm down. Last night's humiliation, this morning's hangover, and this hormone-radiating bastard beside me—all these chaotic emotions tangled together and somehow produced a strange clarity in my brain.
You're a writer. Even if right now you're barely surviving as an editorial assistant at a magazine, you still have a writer's instincts, don't you?
So when life slaps you across the face, what do you do?
You write it into a book and sell it.
I pulled out my sticker-covered MacBook and flipped it open.
What better time to create than now?
Betrayal, arrogant assholes—if I could just detach from my emotions, this was gold. Pure gold.
I opened my document, and my fingers flew across the keyboard.
I was writing a high-society charity gala scene where my protagonist Samantha was carefully orchestrating her plan to publicly destroy Rachel, the vicious woman who'd stolen everything from her.
I poured all my rage, humiliation, and vengeful satisfaction into my fingertips, every line crackling with tension and drama.
I was so absorbed I completely missed what was happening beside me.
"Wow. This is good."
That low voice detonated in my ear without warning.
I nearly threw my laptop. I whipped my head around and found the man had leaned over at some point, his arm braced on the armrest between us, blatantly reading my screen.
I snapped the laptop shut with a sharp click. "Don't you know it's rude to look at someone else's screen?"
"I wasn't deliberately looking." He shrugged innocently and leaned back in his seat, those gray eyes filled with familiar amusement.
"Your font's large enough. Plus, you're hitting those keys like you're trying to murder them.
Hard not to notice." He paused. "Also, I have to say, that comeback line Samantha delivers at the gala?
Better than most Hollywood screenwriters could manage. "
I froze.
I'd never been confident about my writing. Derek always critiqued my novels with this condescending tone, calling them "a little girl's boring fantasies."
And now this man—who looked like he'd stepped off the cover of a financial magazine, clearly demanding and sharp-tongued—was complimenting my dialogue?
The anger in my chest miraculously dissipated by half.
"You really think... it's good?" I looked at him skeptically, my tone softening without my permission.
"I have no reason to lie." He shrugged.
A wave of sweet perfume drifted over. A blonde flight attendant with the drink cart stopped beside us. She glanced at me once, then when she turned to the man beside me, her smile bloomed like a sunflower in full sun.
"Sir, what can I get you to drink?" Her voice was so syrupy it could squeeze out sugar, and she leaned forward slightly, making her uniform's neckline plunge deeper. "We have fresh Dom Pérignon, or would you prefer something stronger?"
He didn't even lift his eyelids. "Dirty martini." Then his gaze slid to me. "Give the lady your best champagne. Put it on my tab."
The blonde's smile stiffened. She muttered something and fumbled with the drinks.
I raised an eyebrow in surprise at the glass of premium champagne fizzing in front of me. "They serve this stuff on planes? I thought first-class perks were just extra legroom."
"As long as you ask, most places in this world will provide whatever service you want, sweetheart.
" He picked up his martini, his long fingers gripping the stem as he gave it a gentle swirl.
"So, this man who's making you commit murder on your keyboard, who even had you screaming at airport security while wearing that ridiculous pink plastic toy—exactly what level of idiot are we talking about? "
What? How did he know about that?
"You eavesdropped on my phone call?" I stared at him in disbelief.
"I just happened to be sitting not far from you." He took a sip of his martini, his Adam's apple rolling in a way that was almost obscene. "If you didn't want people to hear, maybe you should've controlled your volume."
I should've been angry, but whether it was the comfortable cabin temperature or that compliment about my novel, I suddenly felt this urge to talk.
Fine.
Maybe this was a good opportunity to vent.
Besides, we were just strangers who'd share this one flight together. Even if I told him everything, there'd be no follow-up.
"A complete fucking weakling." I grabbed the champagne and took a large gulp, the bubbles and burn exploding in my mouth. "An asshole who sent me photos of him in bed with another woman a week before our wedding."
His brow furrowed slightly, a barely perceptible coldness flashing through those gray eyes. "Right before your wedding?"
"Yes. And you know what the most ridiculous part is?" I laughed bitterly, the alcohol starting to work through my bloodstream, making me bolder. "He actually texted me to lose weight, said I took up too much space, wasn't photogenic enough."
I glanced down at my full chest and thighs. "Maybe he was right. This damn hourglass figure really is hard to squeeze into those size-zero couture dresses."
"Look at me."
He spoke suddenly, his voice dropping.
I turned my head instinctively and met those dark gray eyes. The amusement had vanished completely, replaced by a dangerously focused intensity.
"Any man who complains that you 'take up too much space' is only saying it because he's too weak to handle you.
" His gaze felt like tangible flame, unabashedly traveling from my face down, brazenly surveying my chest, waist, and hips before returning to my eyes.
"You're not too much. You're a weapon. You were built to be gripped tight, to be obsessed over by a real man.
That boy has no idea what he just lost."
Something exploded in my head.
His gaze was too hot, burning until my whole body went soft. The narrow space between our seats felt like it had turned into a vacuum, the air crackling with lethal static.
I'd always craved validation. And in this moment, my body and dreams—constantly diminished by that bastard—were glowing under this man's predatory stare.