Alondra dragged her suitcase across the polished floor of the airport, the faint hum of wheels drowned by the call of boarding announcements in English, Spanish, and French. Her uniform itched against her skin, not because it was tight but because it was routine, the same navy-blue suit, the same smile she wore like armor.
"Alondra, you forgot your earrings again," her mother's voice had teased over breakfast, not even two hours ago, a plate of burnt toast and fried eggs shoved in front of her. "You'll never find a husband if you keep running like this; men like women who sparkle."
Alondra had only rolled her eyes, swallowed black coffee like it was courage, and left before the matchmaking turned into a sermon. She preferred the sky, where no one expected her to marry, only to smile, bow, and serve.
She tapped her crew badge at the staff gate, slipped through security, and joined the other flight attendants already gathering at the gate for flight 472 to Dubai.
"Morning, sunshine," Rafael drawled, his smile lazy, his tie crooked, as he leaned against the counter. "Has your mother called you yet today, or is she saving her nagging for after take-off?"
"She tried," Alondra said, adjusting her scarf, "but I put the phone on silent. What about you, still dodging your ex's texts?"
"Touché." He winked, but the shadows under his eyes gave him away.
The captain briefed them quickly. Turbulence is expected somewhere over the Mediterranean; a full passenger list with VIPs onboard requires special attention. Alondra listened halfheartedly, her body moving on autopilot, checking trays, bottles, service carts, and rehearsed smiles in the mirror of the galley.
It wasn't until the boarding started that she felt something different, a shift in the air like the way lightning crackles before a storm. Heads turned at the same time when a tall man in a charcoal suit walked down the jet bridge, trailed by two aides in black and a bodyguard who looked more soldier than servant. His presence sucked the noise out of the cabin, even before his name was whispered like gossip between first-class passengers.
Ezean Carter.
She had read about him in the papers, the corporate wolf, the one who bought companies just to strip them clean. Some said he was heartless, some said brilliant; all agreed he was untouchable. And now, he was stepping onto her flight like he owned the sky.
"Señor Carter, this way please," Clara, the junior attendant, chirped, flustered, trying not to drop her tray of champagne flutes as she led him toward the private suite section.
Alondra stayed back, adjusting her jacket, trying to ignore the sudden awareness in her chest. She had seen celebrities, politicians, and even royalty, but something about the way he walked—steady, cold, unbothered—made her pulse kick.
The first hours in the sky passed in fragments of routine, the clink of glasses, the soft requests, and the rhythm of serving and clearing. But when her break came, Alondra slipped into the wrong suite by mistake, the soft lighting and closed curtains fooling her into thinking it was empty. She sank into the leather seat, closed her eyes, and for the first time all day, allowed herself to breathe.
She hadn't meant to fall asleep.
A deep voice broke through the fog of her half-dream, low and sharp.
"Who the hell are you?"
Her eyes flew open, and she found herself staring into steel-grey irises, colder than the air conditioning. Ezean Carter was standing in the doorway, his jacket discarded, his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, and his gaze cutting straight through her.
"I—I thought—" she stammered, scrambling up, tugging her scarf back into place, "this suite was empty. I must've—"
"You must've what?" His voice didn't rise, but it carried the weight of command, the kind that didn't need volume to silence, "fallen asleep in a stranger's cabin. That's not protocol, is it?"
Her cheeks burned, her tongue twisted, but something rebellious sparked in her chest. She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze.
"I work fourteen-hour shifts," she said, words tumbling out raw. "Sometimes mistakes happen. Sorry if my presence offends your… perfection."
For a second, his lips curved, not a smile but something close, like the memory of one. Then he stepped closer, too close, the scent of cedar and leather rolling off him, and Alondra felt the oxygen thin.
"You've got spirit," he murmured, almost to himself, "dangerous in your line of work."
"I'll leave," she said quickly, reaching for the door, but his hand brushed against the frame first, blocking her path. Not touching her, not yet, but the proximity made her pulse thunder in her ears.
"You'll leave when I say," he said softly, dangerously soft, "and right now, I'm curious."
She swallowed, heat crawling up her neck, the hum of the plane louder than ever.
"What do you want from me?" she asked, her voice barely steady.
His eyes lingered on her face, her lips, and then back to her eyes.
"Nothing," he said finally, but it didn't sound like the truth, "absolutely nothing."
She slipped past him then, before her trembling betrayed her, before his words rooted deeper. Back in the galley, Rafael gave her a look, brows raised.
"You look like you saw a ghost," he muttered.
"Worse," Alondra whispered, "I saw a man who doesn't believe in ghosts."
And as the plane shuddered suddenly with a pocket of turbulence, glasses rattling in their trays, she gripped the counter hard, her heart pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with the sky.
When she glanced back toward the suite later, she caught Ezean still watching her, his expression unreadable, as if she had already become part of a game she didn't know she was playing.