The screen glowed in the darkness of the cabin, casting pale blue light across Elena’s trembling fingers. She hunched
forward in the leather seat, one hand cupping her phone to shield it from view, the other hovering over the
keyboard as she typed with careful precision. How to hide bruises?
Makeup techniques for covering dark marks. Can TSA see bruises through clothing? Her breath came shallow and
quick. The private jet hummed around her, carrying her somewhere she didn’t want to go, to a man she’d stopped
loving 3 years ago. Marcus had sent the plane. Marcus always
got what he wanted. And right now, what he wanted was her back in Boston, back under his control, back where she could
be reminded of her place. She scrolled through the search results, her other hand unconsciously moving to the tender
spot on her upper arm where his fingers had dug in during their last argument. Five perfect oval bruises hidden now
beneath the cashmere sleeves of her borrowed sweater. The sweater belonged to Katarina, her only friend in New
York, who’d helped her pack in the middle of the night with tearfilled eyes and whispered promises that it would all
be okay. But nothing was okay. Nothing had been okay for a very long time.
Elena clicked on an article about color correcting concealer, her eyes scanning frantically. Green cancels out red.
Yellow for purple. She needed to remember this. She needed to. The phone
vanished from her hands. She gasped, jerking upright in her seat, her heart slamming against her ribs as she spun
around. He stood in the aisle behind her, impossibly tall in the confined space of the cabin, dressed entirely in
black, his eyes cold, calculating the color of smoke and steel fixed on her
phone screen. Then they lifted to her face, and Elena felt the blood drain
from her cheeks. Roman Vulov. She’d seen him exactly once
before, 3 months ago, at a gallery opening in Manhattan. He’d been standing in the corner with two men who moved
like predators, his presence so commanding that the entire room seemed to orbit around him. Elena had felt his
gaze on her then, heavy and assessing, but Marcus had pulled her away before she could even make eye contact.
Later that night, Marcus had been angrier than usual. He’d told her that men like Vulov were dangerous, that she
was never to look at him, never to speak to him, never to acknowledge his existence.
Roman Vulov owns half of New York, Marcus had hissed, his fingers tight around her wrist. He owns politicians,
judges, the commissioner of police. He’s not a man, Elena. He’s a monster in an
expensive suit. And now that monster was holding her phone, reading her desperate
searches, and she was trapped with him at 37,000 ft. “Who’s Marcus?” His voice
was deep, accented, precise. Not a question, a demand.
I How do you Ellena’s voice cracked? She reached for her phone, but Roman lifted
it higher, his movements casual, almost lazy, as if this were amusing to him.
The calendar on your screen, he said, his English perfect, but flavored with something that spoke of Moscow winters
and dangerous men in dark rooms. You have an alert. Marcus arrives 6 p.m.
That’s in 4 hours. He scrolled through her phone with disturbing ease. Interesting browsing history, very
specific searches. Heat flooded Elena’s face. Shame, fear, anger, all mixing
together until she thought she might choke on it. That’s private. You have no right. I have every right. Roman’s eyes
never left hers. This is my plane. The words hit her like cold water.
You’re what? My plane, my pilot, my
cabin crew. He gestured around the luxurious interior with her phone. I’m
wondering why Marcus Chambers thinks he can use my aircraft to transport a woman who’s searching for ways to hide
injuries. Elena’s mind reeled. This wasn’t Marcus’ plane. She’d assumed he’d
told her, “I need to make a call.” Roman turned away from her, already dismissing
her. And that casual disregard sparked something in Elena’s chest. Something
that felt dangerously like courage. Wait. She stood, her legs unsteady
beneath her. If this is your plane, then I need to get off right now. Please. I
need I can’t go to Boston. I can’t. Roman turned back slowly, and the look
on his face made her words die in her throat. He studied her with the intensity of a man who saw everything,
missed nothing, forgot less. His gaze traveled from her two bright eyes to her
borrowed sweater, lingering for just a moment on the way she held her left arm slightly away from her body. “Sit down,”
he said quietly. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t harsh, but something in his tone
made Elellena’s knees buckle, and she sank back into her seat, her heart hammering.
Roman moved past her, heading toward the front of the cabin. Her phone still in his hand. He pushed through a door she
hadn’t noticed before. The cockpit, she realized, and she heard him speaking in rapid Russian, his voice carrying that
same cold authority. The plane began to turn. Elena gripped
the armrests, her knuckles white. What was happening? Where was he taking her?
She thought about standing, about demanding answers. But her body felt frozen, locked in place by something
primal that recognized predator even when it wore Armani and carried itself
with civilized grace. When Roman emerged from the cockpit, he wasn’t alone.
A woman followed him, late 40s, dressed in the neat uniform of flight crew with
sharp eyes and a kind face. She carried a first aid kit. This is Anna,” Roman
said, settling into the seat across the aisle from Elena. He gestured to the woman. She’s going to examine your
injuries. You’re going to let her. I don’t have I’m not injured. I’m fine.
Roman’s laugh was soft and completely humorless. Try again. And this time,
pretend I’m not a man who’s been lied to by experts since I was 15 years old. Anna moved closer, her expression
gentle. May I see your arm, dear? The one you keep protecting?
Tears burned in Elena’s eyes. No, I just I don’t need Elena. Roman’s voice cut
through her stammering. That is your name? Yes. Elena Thornton, formerly of
Chicago, currently employed at Morrison Gallery in Manhattan, engaged 3 years ago to Marcus Chambers of Chambers
Financial. He recited the facts like he was reading from a file. And maybe he was. Maybe men like him always had
files. You’ve canled your engagement twice and both times. Marcus has
