Chapter 15

I glance at him again. He’s looking straight ahead, jaw tight. Like he’s holding something back. Like he’s mad. Like he has the right to be mad.

Oh, hell no.

I snap.

“Aren’t you a billionaire?” I hiss, voice low enough not to alert the entire cabin but sharp enough to slice through the champagne-fueled silence. “Shouldn’t you be in a private jet somewhere? Counting your money? Dodging tabloid engagements?”

He turns to me slowly, like I’m the annoying fly buzzing too close to his bourbon. “Shouldn’t you be busy blogging about bubble baths and avocado toast?”

Touché.

“I am busy. Trying to survive this six-hour flight without committing a felony.”

His mouth twitches, but not in a fun way. More like he’s trying to keep something down. His bourbon, maybe. Or his opinion of me.

Axton slowly turns his head. His expression is blank, but his eyes? His eyes could cut glass. “Shouldn’t you be sneaking out of someone else’s bed by now?”

I blink.

Oh, we’re doing that.

“Wow,” I say, eyebrows shooting up. “Takes a lot of nerve to slut-shame someone for a one-night stand you were also in.”

“I’m not shaming you,” he says coolly. “Just pointing out your pattern.”

I actually laugh. Loud and sharp enough that the woman across the aisle peeks over her Dior sunglasses.

“Are you serious right now?” I hiss. “It was one night, Axton. One night. You don’t get to be mad.”

“I’m not mad,” he lies.

“You’re brooding and clenching your jaw like an ex-boyfriend in a CW show.”

“Whatever.”

He exhales through his nose. Turns back toward the window.

Good. Maybe the cold from outside will match the frost forming between us.

We don’t speak for ten full minutes after that. It's the kind of silence I hate, the kind that buzzes with tension.

I can feel him beside me, arms crossed, jaw ticking, pretending to be so above it all when in reality he’s sitting there in designer loungewear, stewing like a teenager who just lost at Monopoly.

Meanwhile, I’m freezing. Like, actually freezing.

First class is fancy and all, with its champagne and warm towels and mini-lamps and seat dividers that are basically walls, but someone clearly set the thermostat to freezing.

My toes are little icicles, and I tuck my legs under me, trying to keep warm, pulling the blanket up to my chin like it might smother the memory of this entire awkward-as-hell flight.

But then he speaks again. Quiet, but sharp. Like a blade held against soft skin.

“You know why I’m mad?”

I tilt my head, cold, exhausted and miserable. “No, but I’m guessing you’re going to tell me.”

He shakes his head, like I’m exhausting. Like he’s the one who has to suffer me. “I’m mad because after that night, after everything, we had this connection, and you just disappeared.”

I scoff. “Oh, cry me a Dom Pérignon river. You want to talk about disappearing? You wined and dined me like a Nicholas Sparks novel, all while engaged to someone else. And I’m supposed to feel bad for leaving?”

His head snaps toward me. “I wasn’t.”

I blink. “You’re seriously going to lie right to my face?”

He blinks like he’s been waiting for me to snap again. “Do you really want to do this here?”

“Yes. Because apparently I’ve been cast as the villain in your personal rom-com and I’d like to know what scene we’re in.”

His mouth opens. Then shuts.

I go in for the kill. “What kind of game are you two playing, huh? Was she in on it? Some weird ‘let’s seduce the travel blogger for laughs’ thing? Or was that just a solo project?”

His eyes narrow. “We were on a break.”

“God, how original.” I snort. “What is this, a Friends episode?”

“I would never cheat on her,” he snaps. “Ashley’s the one who wanted space. She said she needed time to think about the wedding. That doesn’t make me a monster.”

“Oh, no. Of course not,” I say with mock sweetness. “Just a man with commitment issues and a backup girl in every timezone.”

He actually flinches. Barely. But I see it.

And because I have no chill and possibly a death wish, I push harder.

“I mean, really,” I say, tilting my head like I’m genuinely curious. “Did you actually expect a skank like Ashley to settle down with you?”

His head whips toward me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I blink innocently. “You don’t know?”

He doesn’t answer. Just stares, expression hardening.

So I give it to him straight. “The night I met you? I came home early to surprise my boyfriend.” I smile bitterly. “And found him screwing your fiancée in our bed.”

His entire face goes blank. “No. You’re lying.”

I raise my hands. “Why would I make that up? For drama points? Trust me, I’ve had enough of those to last me the year.”

He shakes his head.

“Ashley wouldn’t cheat on me.”

“She did,” I say firmly. “And unless you two were on a break for, oh, I don’t know, two years, Ashley has been very very busy with Monty behind your back.”

His jaw tightens. His fingers curl around his glass like he’s holding onto it for dear life. Like if he lets go, the whole plane might explode. Or maybe just his whole world.

And he doesn’t say anything.

Not one word.

No denial. No shouting. No “that’s impossible” or “you’re lying” or even a very fancy, grown-up “how dare you?”

Just silence.

“Axton,” I say softly. Not sharp this time. Just… soft.

Still nothing.

“Axton, I’m not making this up.”

His eyes flick to mine and for a second, I see it, just a flicker of something soft. A crack in the armor. Vulnerability, maybe. Or heartbreak. Or the kind of pain you don’t admit out loud because once it’s real, it’s real. And then, like a switch, it’s gone.

His grey eyes look cold now. Like steel left out in a storm.

“What’s his last name?”

I blink. “What?”

He swallows hard, like it hurts. “Monty. What’s his full name?”