"Are you a writer?"
The soft voice startled Jack. Instinctively, he snapped his laptop shut and looked up—only to be taken aback.
A stunning young woman with big, expressive eyes was peering curiously at him from the seat beside him. She smiled sweetly, her expression full of curiosity and intrigue. She even cupped her hand around her mouth as if whispering a secret.
Not every airline had first class, and even those that did weren't all as luxurious as Emirates or Singapore Airlines, where you could stretch out on a full-sized bed.
Jack was currently flying on a Delta Air Lines Airbus A350-900, which didn't technically have first class. Instead, it featured Delta One, an upgraded business class experience.
In reality, it was just slightly better than regular business class—somewhere between actual first class and a premium business seat. It reminded Jack of China's high-speed rail business class: comfortable but not extravagant.
Jack wasn't too pretentious to fly economy—he had plenty of cash now, but that wasn't the reason for booking Delta One.
He simply needed a quiet, private space to write.
As a part-time detective novelist, Jack still had a bit of an image to maintain—especially since he didn't want people knowing he was also writing some… less prestigious fiction.
More importantly, economy class was too chaotic for writing.
With a ten-hour flight from Seoul to New York ahead of him, he couldn't afford to waste the time.
(And no, this had nothing to do with spending the past few days partying nonstop with Ma Seok-do—forcing Justin to threaten to hack all his devices just to get him back on schedule.)
"Sorry," Jack said politely. "Was my typing too loud?"
He had been on a roll, fingers flying across the keyboard at blistering speed.
Then his pupils contracted slightly.
Something about this girl's face felt strangely familiar.
If there was one Hollywood actress whose bright, sapphire-blue eyes could rival Alexandra Daddario's, it was Anne Hathaway.
In Eastern beauty standards, big eyes were a plus, but overly large lips were often seen as less attractive.
Jack had never been a fan of Angelina Jolie's thick lips, but somehow, that same mouth shape looked perfectly balanced on Anne Hathaway's face.
And when she smiled—it was irresistibly charming.
But that wasn't what shocked him.
The real reason Jack's alarm bells went off was that this girl looked exactly like a young Anne Hathaway from The Princess Diaries.
His mind raced—recalling his last in-flight encounter with a certain familiar face from his past life.
Was this flight about to turn into another disaster movie?
Frowning slightly, he glanced out the window.
The stratosphere looked as peaceful as ever. The clouds below were perfectly normal.
No ominous storms.
No engine failures.
So… probably not a bad omen, right?
"Oh, no! It's not your fault…"
The girl hesitated, then groaned in frustration.
"Honestly? I'm just jealous."
She gestured toward her own seat. Jack leaned slightly forward—his eyes landing on the open laptop in front of her.
A blank Word document stared back at them.
Not even a title.
Jack had been so focused on writing that he hadn't paid much attention to the passengers around him.
But now, he understood her frustration.
She was stuck in writer's block hell—while he had been typing away nonstop.
"Jack Tavore," he introduced himself, extending a hand. "I guess you could say I'm a part-time writer."
"Angelina Sachs," she replied, shaking his hand with delicate, slender fingers. "My dream is to be a columnist or an investigative journalist… but right now, I'm just stuck."
Jack nodded in understanding.
"So… your dream hasn't come true yet?"
"Not even close."
She sighed dramatically.
"I graduated from Northwestern University with a journalism degree. Now? I work at a fashion magazine—as an assistant to Miranda Priestly."
Jack blinked.
"Who?"
Angelina gaped at him, then burst out laughing.
"You're serious?"
Jack shrugged.
"I know nothing about the fashion industry."
Angelina actually seemed delighted that he had no clue.
"Good," she said. "That means we can skip that part."
She quickly changed the subject to writing techniques, launching into a passionate rant about how she hadn't written anything substantial in six months.
Jack listened as she talked about her time as editor-in-chief of her university newspaper, her award-winning investigative piece, and how she had moved to New York to chase her journalism dreams—only to end up choosing between a car magazine and a fashion magazine.
Choosing wrong.
Now, she was stuck in a nightmare job, serving an impossible-to-please boss.
Jack's gaze flickered to her Chanel jacket and the Valentino handbag beside her.
"Yeah, I'm sure a lot of girls would love to suffer like this."
Noticing his look, Angelina smirked and pulled two sleek, elegant invitations from her purse.
"FYI," she teased, "the only thing I actually own is my underwear."
"Everything else? Borrowed from fashion brands.
Technically, I'm supposed to return these outfits after wearing them."
She winked, handing him the two invitations.
"This is probably one of the few perks of my job.
Consider it compensation for interrupting your writing session."
Jack opened the cards—VIP tickets to Prada's fashion show at New York Fashion Week.
Third-row seats.
In the world of high fashion, the first two rows were reserved for celebrities and top fashion editors.
These seats were not easy to get.
Jack didn't fully grasp their value, but he knew enough to appreciate the gesture.
Smirking, he handed her a different kind of card—his FBI business card.
"As I said, I'm only a part-time writer.
This is my actual job.
If you ever get into trouble in New York, give me a call.
Though… I hope you never need it."
Angelina's eyes widened, hand flying to her mouth in shock.
She stared at the card, then at Jack.
"You're an FBI agent?"
"Disappointed?" Jack raised an eyebrow.
After a long pause, she whispered, "You're the hottest federal agent I've ever met."
Jack chuckled.
"Not the hottest writer?"
"Depends," she smirked.
"What's your book?"
"Ever heard of Jack Reacher?"
"Nope. Is it an autobiography?
Wow, you are self-obsessed."
Later in New York, Jack met up with Danny Reagan.
"Miranda Priestly? From Paris to New York, that name is legendary—at least in the fashion world."
Danny eagerly accepted the ginseng Jack brought him from Korea, but upon opening the box, he grimaced.
"The hell is this? Dried carrots?"
Jack smirked.
"Trust me—add it to chicken soup. Better than goji berries.
If you hate it, I'll swap it for kimchi."
Danny snatched the box back instantly.
"So, you met a 'Miranda Girl' on your flight?" Danny smirked as they drove away from the airport.
"Wait—what the hell is a Miranda Girl?"
Danny sighed.
"My wife's sister is obsessed with the fashion industry. I couldn't avoid learning this stuff even if I tried.
Miranda Priestly is a fashion world tyrant.
She's fired hundreds of assistants—but girls still fight for a chance to work for her."
Jack blinked.
Wait a minute…
Wasn't this the plot of The Devil Wears Prada?
No wonder she looked like Anne Hathaway.
______
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