DISCLAIMER: THE TIME SETTING DOESN'T EXACTLY ALIGN WITH WHAT WOULD PLAY OUT IN REALITY, AND IT WAS DELIBERATE. YOU CAN NOT TRAVEL FROM NEW YORK TO ROMANIA IN LESS THAN 10 HOURS. THANK YOU.
The plane was too quiet.
Not the normal kind of quiet, like library quiet, or Sunday-afternoon nap quiet.
This was the kind of quiet where every sound I made felt like it was echoing through the Vatican during mass. The clink of my seatbelt. The pathetic buzz of Candy Crush on my phone.
My own heartbeat, hammering like I'd smuggled a snare drum through TSA.
Private planes weren't new to Wolfe, obviously.
He sat across the aisle, long legs crossed, scrolling through his phone.
I had this weird suspicion he wasn't even reading anything, just… glaring at the pixels until they submitted. Meanwhile, his bodyguards sat farther back, suits pressed, sunglasses still on like they were auditioning for Men in Black 9: Eastern European Vacation.
A flight attendant materialized out of nowhere, perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect posture. She bent slightly toward Wolfe. "Mr. Wolfe, may I offer you anything? Water, wine, champagne, espresso—"
"No." He didn't glance up. Just a single syllable, flat, final, like a judge's gavel.
The attendant bobbed a professional nod, retreating as if she'd just been told her services were an affront to humanity.
I picked at the hem of my skirt, trying not to laugh hysterically. I mean, why even have staff on these flights if he's going to act like hydration is for peasants?
So, yeah. Calm. I was calm. Totally calm.
Definitely not sitting there replaying the last six hours of my life like a blooper reel. Tripping in the lobby. Nearly assassinating his shoe with a rogue granola bar. Being called pitiful. And now, Romania.
Romania had not been on my itinerary. Neither had public humiliation, but apparently life was full of surprises.
And Wolfe had a special talent for them. This was the same man who once, at 9 p.m. on a Tuesday, ordered me to book a same-day flight to Quebec so I could bring him back a particular brand of artisanal chocolate bar. Not because he liked the chocolate, mind you.
No. He'd given it to a client who "preferred authenticity." And, because ordering it online like a normal human was beneath him, I had to go. Me. Emery.
His unpaid errand goblin.
So Romania? Oh, sure. Totally normal. Why not?
I hunched deeper into my seat, opening a game on my phone. Pixelated candy exploded in pastel colors as I tapped mindlessly, pretending this wasn't my life. If I ignored Wolfe long enough, maybe he'd forget I existed.
That fantasy lasted approximately three minutes.
Because I felt it. That prickling, that weird someone is watching me sensation that makes your spine tingle. My eyes flicked up, and, yep. He was staring at me.
Not blinking. Not looking away. Just… staring.
Heat shot up my neck.
I did what any mature adult would do: snapped my gaze back to my phone like the candy-crushing world was suddenly the most fascinating universe in existence. My fingers trembled so hard I nearly detonated all the wrong gummies.
Then, he sniffed.
Not a dainty sniff. A sharp inhale, like he was checking for gas leaks.
"Did you bathe today?"
My soul left my body. I wanted to die, evaporate, turn into airplane vapor trails. "I—I—what?"
"Did you bathe." His tone made it sound like he was conducting a census.
"Yes!" My voice cracked like puberty had hit for the second time. "Yes, I showered this morning!"
He stared a beat longer, then nodded slightly. "Hm."
Hm.
That was it. That was the whole response. Just "hm," like my entire existence had been filed away under moderately acceptable hygiene.
I turned toward the window, cheeks flaming, and silently begged the universe to open a hatch so I could eject myself somewhere over the Atlantic.
This man wasn't just cruel, he was a professional in psychological warfare.
The rest of the flight dragged like a funeral march.
By the time the wheels touched down in Romania, I was practically dehydrated from stress-sweat alone.
My phone announced the local time: 2:03 p.m. Outside the oval window, the sky hung heavy with pale gray clouds, the air on the tarmac misty and cold.
The moment we disembarked, a black limousine was already waiting.
Not just any limo, one of those absurdly stretched beasts you only see in music videos or prom night disasters. A driver in a peaked cap held the door open, bowing slightly.
Inside, it was all leather seats and soft lighting. Wolfe slid in first, immediately pulling out his phone again, while I perched awkwardly across from him.
And of course, this wasn't a normal car where you sit side by side. No. This was one of those big, fancy interiors where we faced each other directly. Perfect. Now I got to watch him ignore me in high definition.
The silence pressed in again until, without looking up, he asked, "Do you have an evening dress?"
I almost choked on my own spit. "Excuse me?"
His eyes lifted to mine. "It's simple english, Emery. An evening dress."
My brain scrambled like eggs on a skillet. Was he serious? Did he think I packed gowns for surprise Romania trips?
"No, sir," I said, forcing a smile so brittle I was partially sure he would see through me. I wasn't aware we were attending any galas when you, oh, I don't know, informed me this morning.
The words were on the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed them. Hard.
Instead, I repeated, sugary sweet, "No, sir. I don't."
He watched me a moment longer, as though weighing my usefulness against that fact. Then he simply looked away. Back to his phone. Not a word.
The urge to scream into the leather upholstery nearly consumed me.
The limo rolled smoothly through the city.
From the windows, Cluj-Napoca revealed itself in flashes, narrow cobbled streets, gothic spires, pastel houses with red-tiled roofs. It was beautiful, in that haunting storybook way.
Finally, the car slowed before a hotel.
Not just any hotel, a palace masquerading as one. Cream-colored stone walls soared upward, lined with wrought-iron balconies and tall arched windows. Ivy climbed the façade, and golden lettering gleamed above the grand entrance.
The driver opened Wolfe's door first. Of course. He stepped out, barely glancing at the building like it was nothing more than a pit stop.
I followed, clutching my bag. The air was colder than I expected, sharp against my cheeks.
My breath puffed visibly in the air.
"Go inside," Wolfe said, his voice low, final. "They'll explain."
"They?" I echoed, but he was already walking away, phone to his ear, bodyguards flanking him.
Of course.
I turned, and froze.
Two women stood at the top of the hotel steps, waiting.
They were identical.
Both tall, both slender, both with cascades of coppery-red hair that shimmered like molten fire in the gray daylight. Their skin was pale, their eyes unnervingly green, their smiles too perfect.
They could've stepped out of a perfume ad or a fairy tale where they'd probably lure you into the forest and steal your soul.
The woman on the left inclined her head slightly, her voice soft but commanding. "Miss Emery. Come with us."
My feet refused to move. My brain screamed nope.
But Wolfe's words still rang in my ears. They'll explain.
So, clutching my bag tighter, I swallowed, forced one foot in front of the other, and climbed the steps toward the two ginger-haired sirens.
"Um," I croaked. "Hi?"
Their smiles widened in perfect unison.