WRITER'S POV:
Ivy stood on the glossy tile of the private terminal, clutching a flight manifest with her name on it. Not commercial. Not standard. This was a private charter, and not just any—the charter. The one that had Cassius's last name on the passenger list. Twice.
Her stomach dipped.
"Don't pass out," she muttered, smoothing her skirt like it owed her rent. "You're not new anymore. You're just... tragically underprepared."
She was getting good at lying to herself.
As the crew gathered for briefing, Ivy realized this wasn't your average one-percenter party. The security staff had military posture. The handlers moved like shadows. The lead purser kept saying "clients" with the reverence of someone naming royalty. This wasn't champagne-and-sunglasses rich. This was shut-up-and-fly rich.
Ivy felt it before she saw it—the static again. She turned just as Cassius entered the terminal.
He walked between Monday and Jason like a shadow among storms. Tailored jacket. Hair freshly cut. That tattoo still hidden like a secret map. And then he looked at her.
Her throat closed.
Jason smirked immediately. Monday didn't even wait.
"Look who's back," he purred, eyes glittering. "The beverage fairy. Still bringing sparkling water and innocent eyes, huh?"
Ivy blinked. "You... you know my name."
Monday grinned. "I know everything about you, sweetheart. Your name. Your shoe size. Your terrified energy. It's adorable."
She was speechless, and for a moment, Monday looked genuinely delighted by it.
Cassius didn't speak. He walked past, slower now, his expression unreadable. Jason gave her a brief two-finger salute as they passed, as if mocking a fallen soldier.
Once aboard, Ivy moved like a ghost. Polished. Quiet. Avoiding all eye contact. But fate, as always, was an unhelpful gremlin.
She reached out to offer wine to Cassius—just a standard serve—and he didn't even look at the glass. Just said, too softly for anyone but her to hear:
"Drop it and go."
She froze. "Excuse me?"
His eyes flicked to hers. Cold. Controlled. "Before my hand brushes yours. Again."
Ivy lowered the tray. Her pulse was now trying to escape her ribcage. "Wow," she whispered, "you really hate hydration."
She turned quickly, walking away before her brain exploded. Back in the galley, she gripped the edge of the counter like it would stop the shaking. Her feelings were an embarrassing kaleidoscope: insulted, flattered, confused, completely and irreparably obsessed.
Why was she so hung up on his hand?
It wasn't just the look of it—it was the restraint. The idea that a man like that could choose not to touch her. That he wanted to stop himself.
It made her want to scream into a pillow.
Meanwhile, in the back of the jet, Cassius sat motionless, jaw tight. Jason leaned in.
"You okay there, boss?"
"She's not part of this," Cassius muttered.
Jason tilted his head. "Not yet."
Monday, across from them, sipped espresso and smirked. "She doesn't even know she's in a story that ends with someone bleeding out in the Alps."
Cassius's fingers tapped once on his knee. The wine he didn't take still sat in the cupholder beside him, untouched. He couldn't explain it, but the thought of her seeing him fully—past the suits, past the reputation—made his chest tighten like a drawn wire.
Something was shifting.
And he didn't like it.