WRITER'S POV:
The moment Ivy walked through the front door of her apartment, she kicked off her shoes with a theatrical sigh and dropped her flight bag like it personally betrayed her.
Marcie popped her head out of the kitchen, flour on her cheek and a mixing bowl under her arm. "Well, well, well—if it isn't the goddess of the skies. How was your first real dive into the blue yonder?"
Ivy didn't answer immediately. She walked straight to the fridge, grabbed the bottle of wine they kept for emotional emergencies, and held it up like a lifeline. Marcie handed her a glass without asking.
"That bad?"
"I touched a man's hand today," Ivy said flatly.
Marcie blinked. "That's... oddly specific. Do I need to ask if it was consensual, or should I be excited?"
Ivy took a deep sip and flopped onto the couch. "It wasn't just any hand. It was like... Greek statue meets luxury crime boss hand. Tattoos. Veins. And the grip—Marcie, he could hold a country hostage with that grip."
Marcie set the mixing bowl down and leaned against the doorway, intrigued. "Please tell me you're exaggerating for dramatic effect."
"I'm not," Ivy groaned. "And he didn't even look at me right away. Just took his drink and kept reading like he hadn't short-circuited my entire brain. And THEN when he looked up... girl."
Marcie narrowed her eyes. "So what you're saying is you've imprinted on a man from business class?"
"Yes," Ivy muttered into her wine glass. "And his brothers were there too. Teasing. Smirking. Dressed like mafia runway models. And my purser definitely side-eyed me like I'd just gotten cursed by a very hot demon."
Marcie let out a long, dramatic whistle. "You're living a Wattpad chapter."
"I think I blacked out for three minutes. I might've offered him sparkling water twice."
They both burst out laughing, but deep down, Ivy felt the static hadn't left. Something about that man lingered.
"I don't even know his name," she added, staring up at the ceiling. "And yet I'm ninety percent sure I'm going to dream about his hand tonight. Like a freak."
"Oh, sweetheart," Marcie said, heading back into the kitchen with her bowl. "We're all freaks. You just met yours at cruising altitude."
---
Meanwhile, across the city...
Cassius Black sat in the corner of an exclusive cigar lounge in his condo, newspaper still folded in his lap, untouched drink sweating beside him.
He wore the same suit, only now his sleeves were fully rolled up, exposing the wrist tattoo in full—a swirling design around a serpent and Latin phrase that twisted around his arm like a secret he never shared. His neck tattoo, mostly hidden earlier, now peeked out slightly from the loosened collar, a black ink arc that moved when he did.
His brother's voice echoed faintly in memory—"She touched your hand like it was a holy relic."
He didn't smile. He rarely did. But his fingers brushed his own knuckles absently, tracing the faded tattoo across them. Latin. Something old. Something he no longer needed to translate.
He hadn't meant to look at her.
But he had.
And now, she was in the back of his mind like static.
A low voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Boss, they're ready for you upstairs."
Cassius stood, rolled down his sleeves, buttoned the cuffs with slow, precise movements. His phone buzzed. A message. A meeting. Another empire to maneuver.
But her eyes—
Red hair. Calm hands. Nervous laugh.
Cassius exhaled once and walked out, never sparing the drink a glance.
The static, however, walked with him.
And it was getting louder.