Chapter Eighteen Imani
The moment the plane tilts upwards, I feel it.
That familiar, fluttery, weightless rush in my chest that happens every time I take off to a new destination. I’ve missed it more than I’d ever admit out loud.
And God, I’ve missed it.
‘Should I be worried?’ Sloane asks, peeking at me over the top of her sunglasses.
She’s cocooned in a blush-pink blanket, a glass of champagne in one hand, and her seat already reclined further than technically allowed during take-off.
‘We’ve been airborne for thirty seconds and you look like you’re about to marry this plane. ’
I grin into my own champagne flute. ‘Don’t tempt me. It wouldn’t be the worst marriage offer I’ve had recently.’
She snorts. ‘You’re ridiculous.’
‘I’m happy,’ I say simply.
And I am. I grew up on planes. Peregrine Airways has been practically stitched into my DNA since birth.
My earliest memories are of cabin lights dimming to a warm gold, the soft rustle of attendants moving up and down aisles, and my father’s crisp voice telling me to sit up straight and look out the window as the plane touched down somewhere new.
But that was before he clipped my wings.
Now I’m here again, in seat 1A of a Peregrine Airways flight bound for France, drinking my way through the guilt and anger that comes from knowing the only reason I’m flying again is because my father ordered it.
Optics, he’d said. The board needs to see unity. You and Asher need to present as solid. Romantic. Happy.
Ugh. I gulp down the rest of my champagne and signal a flight attendant for another.
‘I’ll admit it,’ Sloane says, pulling me out of a potential spiral before I can slip into it. ‘As much as I am fully aboard the anti-Malcolm train—’
‘Appreciate it.’
‘He knows his shit.’
She has a point. Sloane is no stranger to luxury travel, but first class on a Peregrine Airways flight is a different world entirely.
Peregrine’s first class is built to rival palaces.
Private suites gleam under soft, golden lighting that shifts with altitude; the cream leather seat cushions are stitched with champagne-gold threads and recline into beds softer than the clouds outside.
Polished wood panels glint faintly between curved partitions that rise for privacy at the touch of a button.
The air smells faintly of oud and vanilla, the scent warm and expensive enough to seep into your bones and make you relax.
On one wall, an inlaid minibar glows amber, stocked with crystal decanters and tiny jars of caviar.
A screen larger than should be possible for an aeroplane slides silently out of the panel in front of me.
Even the windows are rimmed in brushed gold, each one paired with a plush velvet curtain instead of a standard shade.
The cabin crew glide up and down the aisle like a choreographed dance troupe, smiles all perfectly calibrated, voices soft and smooth enough to calm even the most nervous flyer.
It’s decadent. Extravagant. The kind of travel that doesn’t just make you feel seen. Every last piece has been designed to remind you that you’re not just a passenger – you’re someone important.
No one does travel like Peregrine Airways and it should feel like home. It used to feel like home.
But now, every time I glance at the logo embroidered on the headrest, I’m reminded that I’m only here because my father said so and that he could snatch this from me as easily as he gave it back.
The reminder sours the champagne on my tongue.
This is truly our last chance to pull it off. To show our fathers that Asher and I are a disaster together.
The world’s most incompatible couple.
Toxic enough that no amount of corporate spin could possibly sell our ‘love story’ to their investors and shareholders.
But couples like that don’t kiss the way Asher and I did last week.
I keep telling myself that I can still do this. That I can look at Asher and remember the plan, not the way he tasted or the way it felt to press my curves against him. That I can be cold and cutting in public and seemingly impossible to love.
But if I’m being honest with myself, I’m not sure I believe it anymore.
‘Okay, so,’ Sloane says suddenly, turning sideways in her seat to face me fully. ‘What’s the plan?’
She doesn’t need to elaborate; I know exactly what she’s asking.
‘Just more of the same really,’ I say with a shrug.
‘More of the same,’ she repeats flatly. ‘Well that’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard.’
I scowl at her. ‘I don’t see you coming up with any ideas.’
She holds up her hands semi-apologetically. ‘Fair. But I know you can’t just show up and start throwing drinks at each other. Been there. Done that. The people are bored.’
I shrug, even though that is pretty much exactly what I’d been planning on doing on this trip. ‘Asher’s coming up with the plan. We’re supposed to meet once we get there to finalise the strategy.’
‘And you trust him to think of something good?’
‘I have to,’ I say. Not just because I’m running on empty when it comes to potential ideas, but because I don’t trust myself around Asher anymore.
When this all started, it was almost fun. Matching him glare for glare, insult for insult. Watching the tension build in a way that made everyone else around us uncomfortable.
But then the kiss happened and now every version of this plan feels a little like playing with fire.
Sloane taps a manicured finger against her glass. ‘You’ve got that look again.’
‘What look?’
‘I thought you were just excited about being airborne again, but now I’m wondering…’ She tilts her head, studying me like a cat about to pounce. ‘What happened?’
A lump forms in my throat. ‘Huh?’
She leans in. ‘Something. Happened.’
‘Nothing happened,’ I squeak, and then wince because God damn it, I just squeaked.
Sloane lifts a brow. ‘It did.’
I bite my lip. I’m not entirely sure why I didn’t tell Sloane about the kiss as soon as Asher left my place. In all the years we’ve known each other, I don’t think I’ve ever intentionally hidden anything from her.
Sloane studies me for a long moment, her expression caught somewhere between suspicion and concern. ‘You’re biting your lip,’ she says finally. ‘That’s your tell.’
‘I’m not,’ I mumble, which only makes her smirk.
‘Sure,’ she says, taking a smug sip of champagne. ‘And I don’t occasionally stalk my ex’s Instagram to see if he’s balding. He is, for what it’s worth. Try again.’
I groan and sink lower into my seat. ‘You’re not going to let this go, are you?’
‘Not a chance.’ She leans forward, eyes bright and sharp as the diamonds around her neck. ‘So spill. What did he do? Or—’ Her grin widens wickedly. ‘What did you do?’
‘Nothing!’ I blurt. Then I pause and let out a sigh. There’s no point in denying it anymore. Sloane knows me better than I know myself. ‘Okay, not nothing.’
Her jaw drops. ‘Oh my God. You slept with him.’
‘What? No!’ I hiss, glancing towards the aisle in case one of the flight attendants overhears and runs immediately to @TrustFundTea with this information. ‘Why would you jump straight to that? Of course I didn’t sleep with him.’
I decide not to share that I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time daydreaming about it over the last week though.
‘Then what— Uh-oh. You kissed him.’
‘It was a mutual kissing.’
‘Define mutual.’
‘Simultaneous enthusiasm,’ I say, waving a hand.
Sloane’s grin turns triumphant. ‘Oh my God. Please tell me it was bad. Tell me it was awkward and weird and you accidentally head-butted him or burped in his mouth.’
I let out a long breath. ‘It wasn’t bad.’
Her eyes widen. ‘Oh no.’
‘Oh yes,’ I say miserably.
She stares at me like she’s trying to solve an equation. ‘So let me get this straight. You’re supposed to be fake-hating him badly enough that your fathers call off their merger, and instead you’re out here kissing and catching feelings?’
‘I’m not catching feelings,’ I say too quickly.
‘Imani.’
‘I’m not!’
She tilts her head. ‘Why are your cheeks red?’
‘It’s warm in here,’ I mumble, fiddling with my seatbelt like it’s suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.
Sloane huffs dramatically and flops back into her seat. ‘You’re doomed.’
I glare. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Nuh-uh. You two are going to show up, try to act like you hate each other, and accidentally look like you’re about to tear each other’s clothes off in the lobby.’
‘Not we won’t,’ I say firmly. ‘Asher and I are on the same page. The kiss was a one-time thing. We both know what our end game is here, and we’ve got our eye on the finish line. We’re sticking to the plan. The kiss changes nothing.’
‘Sure,’ Sloane says with a slight roll of her eyes. ‘Whatever helps you sleep at night.’
But that’s the problem, isn’t it?
It isn’t helping.
Every time I close my eyes, I can still feel him. His hand at the back of my neck, the low sound he made when he kissed me like a man starved.
I haven’t decided which is more worrying. The fact that I kissed him back with equal enthusiasm, or the fact that I’d gladly do it again.
The captain’s voice hums overhead announcing our descent into France. My stomach dips, not from turbulence, but from the sudden, unwelcome wave of awareness that in less than an hour, I’m going to see Asher again.
I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with my face when that happens.
Any thoughts about Asher and how to stop my heart from bursting through my chest the second I lay eyes on him disappear as the plane dips through a sea of pale clouds as sunlight suddenly spills across the cabin in molten gold.
I press a hand to the window as the French Alps come into view, snowy peaks giving way to pine forests and the glittering blue-green of Lake Annecy. It’s not my first time visiting this part of France, but the beauty of it all still takes my breath away.
There’s a bakery in the small town a short drive from the lake, and I wonder if I’ll have time to visit it.
It’s tucked away on a quiet corner, the kind of place you’d miss if you blinked while driving past. The shutters are a faded green, paint peeling in soft curls like dried petals, and the sign above the door – LA MIETTE – is so weathered it looks like it’s simply clinging to the wall out of sheer force of will.
It’s not the kind of place that ends up in glossy travel magazines or gets made famous by influencers on TikTok or Instagram, but that’s what I love about it.
The first time I wandered in, it smelled like butter and sugar and something faintly citrusy.
The air inside was warm enough to melt every bit of stress out of my body.
The counters were dusted with flour, and the glass case overflowed with pastries that looked too beautiful to eat.
There were rows and rows of golden croissants stacked on top of each other, glossy fruit tarts with apricots shining like jewels, and a mountain of buttery pain au chocolats filled with creamy, molten chocolate.
I wonder if it’s still there. I can picture it now; the low hum of French chatter, the bell that jingles when the door opens, the smell of sugar melting into air, and before I can stop myself, I imagine walking in with Asher.
It’s a ridiculous thought. Absolutely unhelpful.
Yet it lodges in my mind and refuses to disappear.
I imagine him sitting across from me at the corner table, sunlight catching on his hair, grinning my favourite smile over the rim of his coffee cup while butter flakes from his croissant gather on his sleeve.
For one dizzy, traitorous heartbeat, I want that.
I want to see the look on his face when he takes his first bite and he realises that this tiny bakery, nestled off the beaten track in the middle of the French Alps, will ruin every single other bakery for him.
I want to share it with him; this quiet, ordinary thing that feels like home.
The realisation hits me so suddenly, it’s like I’ve been slapped.
I want to share something real with him.
Which is insane. Because this whole thing between us, whatever it is, just isn’t real. It’s all built on lies and strategy and optics.
Still, as the plane dips lower, the clouds thinning into a wash of blue and gold, I can’t shake the image I’ve conjured of Asher laughing in that little bakery, sugar on his thumb, sunlight in his hair.
When we land, the ground staff at the airport staff usher us through a private terminal and before long, we’re sliding into the back of a glossy black car with tinted windows and emblazoned with the signature Vouvalis V.
The drive winds us through pine forests and sleepy lakeside villages.
It’s picturesque. Stunning, really. I wish we had more time here, but we’ve only got forty-eight hours.
As we crest the final hill and the hotel grounds come into view, I can’t help but gasp.
Vouvalis Resort locations are always beautiful, but this is on another level.
The building rises from the lakeside like something out of a dream.
Sleek lines of white stone and glass terraces that curve along the water’s edge, sunlight catching on every mirrored surface.
I spy an infinity pool in the near distance that seems to spill straight into the lake.
Cameras flash near the entrance where a cluster of photographers has already gathered to snap the oncoming onslaught of guests for the weekend.
The entranceway is crowded with cars identical to ours, guests snapping photos on their phones and posing for the hired photographers, and cheerful-looking staff dragging around large, expensive suitcases and taking them up to rooms. I shouldn’t be able to find him in a crowd this chaotic, but I do.
He’s standing on the steps, a little way away from the crowd. He looks effortlessly handsome, as per usual.
Navy suit, open collar, the faintest hint of stubble along his jawline. His posture is relaxed, but I can tell by the faint tension in his jaw that he’s not nearly as calm as he looks.
The sight of him hits me harder than I expect. My pulse spikes, my brain short-circuits, and for a second, I think I genuinely forget how to breathe.
And then his eyes find mine through the car window.
A tiny, knowing smile flickers at the corner of his mouth. It’s the kind of smile that simultaneously seems to say thank God you’re here and I remember exactly what you taste like.
I swallow thickly.
Sloane follows my gaze and lets out a low whistle. ‘Like I said, doomed.’