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The first-class cabin of the British Airways flight was a sanctuary of quiet luxury, humming with the low, steady vibration of the jet engines.
Michael sat in his spacious, reclining leather pod, scrolling through the endless feed on his tablet.
Every third post was a massive celebrity
-A-list actors, platinum-selling pop stars, even a couple of heavyweight politicians-posting pictures of themselves either holding his new book or weeping over it.
He locked the tablet and looked across the aisle at his manager.
Evans was currently sipping a glass of vintage champagne and reviewing a digital spreadsheet.
"Evans," Michael called out softly, tapping the back of his tablet. "How much exactly did you spend on these influencers and celebrities? My feed is completely saturated with them talking about the book."
Evans lowered his glass, a highly amused smirk spreading across his face. "Michael, I didn't spend a single dime. We gave them absolutely nothing for the marketing of The Fault in Our Stars. Not a free copy, not a promotional check. Nothing."
Michael raised an eyebrow. "Then why are they doing it?"
"Because you are the hottest commodity on the planet right now," Evans stated simply. "They are just jumping on a high-speed media attention train. Mentioning your name gets them engagement, likes, and makes them look sophisticated and in touch with the cultural zeitgeist. They're clout-chasing, plain and simple."
Michael let out a short, cynical laugh. "Well, how much actual publicity is this going to generate for us?"
"Honestly? Not much," Evans shrugged, setting his spreadsheet aside. "In the literary world, everyone who matters already knows exactly who Michael Owen is. The casual celebrity mentions are just white noise at this point. It doesn't make much of a difference to the bottom line."
Before Michael could respond, a soft throat-clearing caught their attention.
A young, impeccably dressed air hostess was standing nervously at the edge of Michael's seat.
"Excuse me, Mr. Owen?" she asked, her voice slightly breathless. "I'm so sorry to interrupt your flight, but the cabin crew and I are massive fans of your work. Would it be at all possible to get a quick picture with you?"
Michael's professional, sharp demeanor instantly softened into his trademark charm.
He unbuckled his seatbelt and stood up, offering her a warm, genuine smile. "Of course. It would be my pleasure. Lead the way."
He followed her to the galley, spending a few minutes graciously posing for photos and thanking the crew for their hospitality, before smoothly returning to his seat.
As he settled back in, the reality of his destination settled over him.
"Evans, what's the situation on the ground? Will there be paparazzi at London? They've been following me everywhere lately."
"Count on it," Evans replied, pulling up a schedule on his phone. "We have private security waiting at the tarmac, but it's going to be a madhouse. It's not just you arriving; it's the timing. You're touching down just in time for the promised BBC interview with the main cast. The press knows you're reuniting with Emma, Asha, Zain, and Yali. They smell blood."
Michael nodded slowly, bracing himself for the flashbulbs. "Alright. And what about the actual sales for The Fault in Our Stars?"
Evans's eyes practically bugged out of his head.
He threw his hands up in the air, his calm manager persona completely dissolving into sheer, bonkers enthusiasm.
"Michael, it is a bloodbath of money! It's unprecedented! Terry called me three hours ago-he is completely overworked and losing his mind trying to manage the logistics. Because of your idea to artificially limit the initial supply, the demand has mutated into absolute hysteria! It's the most expensive book on the secondary market right now because nobody can get their hands on it!"
Evans took a breath, grinning like a madman. "It has only been one day since the release, and it is officially the most ordered book in the history of global publishing. We have Grammy-winning singers tweeting that you broke their hearts, and Oscar-winning directors calling your prose 'a masterclass in human empathy.' You broke the industry, boss."
Michael couldn't help but smile at that.
"Good. Let the demand simmer a bit longer before we authorize the second print run. What about the other projects?"
"Moving at lightspeed," Evans reported, tapping his screen. "Grave of the Fireflies is officially ready for post-production and marketing. The studio was asking about branding."
"Give them full permission to use my name," Michael said without hesitation. "Plaster 'A Michael Owen Story' on every poster. I want that movie in as many screens around the world as possible. People need to see it."
"Done," Evans nodded. "And A Good Girl's Guide to Murder has officially wrapped shooting. Post-production is being finalized as we speak. The cast has been flying all over the world promoting the show, and this London trip is their final destination. The BBC interview is the grand finale of the tour."
At the mention of the cast, Michael's thoughts immediately drifted, inevitably, to Emma.
It had been three long, agonizing months since he had last seen her in person.
Three months since that quiet, electricity-filled moment when they had kissed. Since then, it had been an endless string of late-night FaceTime calls across different time zones, rapid-fire text chains, and a growing, deep fondness that made his chest ache.
They were closer than ever, yet Michael-still hadn't summoned the absolute guts to officially ask her out and define what they were doing.
Buzz.
Michael's phone vibrated on the armrest. He picked it up.
A notification sat on the lock screen. It was a message from Emma.
He opened the chat.
She had sent a sticker of a little animated bunny waving its paw, accompanied by a speech bubble that said, Hello!
Right beneath it, another text popped up:
Emma: When are you landing? I have something to ask you.
Michael furrowed his brow, a spike of nervous confusion hitting him. His thumbs flew across the keyboard.
Michael: In about 1 hr. What is this about?
Three dots appeared as she typed.
A few seconds later, her reply came through, dripping with playful teasing.
Emma: Not saying. First, you have to land on English soil. 😌
Michael stared at the screen, a massive, helpless smile tugging at his lips despite his confusion.
He locked the phone and let his head fall back against the headrest.
"Why am I such a noob in these things?" Michael muttered to himself under his breath, genuinely frustrated by his own lack of skill in romance.
From across the aisle, Evans didn't even look up from his spreadsheet. "Maybe because you are a virgin."
Michael's head snapped sideways.
He glared at his manager, his voice dropping into a deadly, flat monotone. "Shut the fuck up, Evans."
Evans just offered a wide, entirely no shame smile.
He reached out and pressed the silver button on his console. With a quiet, hydraulic hum, the privacy partition between their suites slid upward, sealing Evans safely away.