Departure Day – Private Jet
The sky was clear—sunlight sprawled across the runway as if nothing had ever happened. But beneath that unbothered light, a quiet, cool tension slowly settled in.
The Langley Group's private jet awaited, its interior draped in the glow of polished lighting, soft classical music humming beneath the surface, crystal flutes of vintage champagne untouched on the side trays.
The four of them sat facing one another—silent, restrained, each in their own orbit.
Daniel kept his gaze locked to the window. Beyond the glass, the sky moved in slow gradients—the world falling away in silence, like a film in reverse. His long fingers rested calmly on his lap, and with each measured breath, he seemed to disappear further into the quiet.
Now and then, his eyes would pause—almost involuntarily—on the side of her face. And each time, as if caught in the act of feeling something forbidden, he would tear his gaze away, returning it to the clouds outside as if nothing had happened at all.
He wanted to run—not away, but toward her. Given the chance, he would take her to a quiet place, a room with no walls and no past, and pour every restrained emotion into the way he looked at her. Into the way he would speak her name.
He wondered, briefly, if this is what addiction felt like.
Celeste scrolled through next winter's designs on her tablet. Outside, it was still drenched in midsummer light, but before her eyes, a colder season had already taken shape—crisp silhouettes, pale hues, orderly lines.
This time of year, right before one season gave way to the next, was always her rhythm—her safe place. But today, even inside the familiarity, there was a subtle tremor.
Her gaze remained steady, but her mind lingered in the echoes of the conversation she'd had with Noah the night before.
When she was with him, she felt like a better version of herself—more whole, more human. That thought stirred the waters beneath her calm surface. And so, with even greater focus, she buried herself in winter.
The sharp contrasts. The disciplined shapes. The world she could control.
Jinwoo sat with his eyes closed. He hadn't spoken a word since boarding. Not a glance, not a sigh, just silence wrapped around him like armor.
The fatigue slouched over his shoulders was not from lack of sleep, but from the quiet weight of unspoken words, unmet eyes, and feelings no one had asked for.
He breathed, in and out, slow and bare. And somewhere between inhale and exhale, he caught it again—her perfume. Cool, melancholic, inexplicably addictive.
It ghosted past his nose, and in that scent, he swallowed—again and again—the maddening urge to reach for her. To forget everything and lose himself in her warmth.
Noah, meanwhile, appeared the most at ease. A coffee in one hand, a magazine lazily draped in the other, he scanned the cabin in silence—amused, perhaps, but watchful.
His lips curled upward, but his eyes were sharp, tracking every heartbeat in the room.
They all knew. But no one spoke first.
A faint clink of champagne flutes. A small tremor from mid-air turbulence. Tightened expressions in a space too elegant to scream in. Each of them, in their own way, was swallowing something whole.
Van Nuys Airport, Los Angeles – 3:43 PM
The jet touched down with a velvet glide, and beyond the glass, the golden haze of a foreign city began to unfold.
The first thing they felt was the air—not hot, but warm and dry, a breeze like silk brushing the skin.
Even the sunlight here seemed less like light, more like texture.
When the cabin doors opened, they disembarked without a word, as if it had been agreed in advance that no one would meet anyone's gaze.
Three black SUVs waited in perfect formation. The matte shimmer of tinted glass caught the afternoon sun like a mirror with secrets.
Outside, the scent of California mingled: dust warmed by heat, a hint of salt, and the breath of distant palms.
Inside the car, Mulholland Drive curved like a ribbon, and the distant silhouettes of the Santa Monica hills rose like an oil painting beyond the tinted windows.
Lo-fi jazz played softly through the speakers, but inside each vehicle, the real noise was silent: the sound of inner battles no one could name.
As they followed the Pacific Coast Highway and rose gently into the Malibu hills, the ocean fell behind them like a memory.
And finally, above a secluded ridge, beyond a wrought-iron gate that opened on cue—the Langley Private Villa revealed itself.
A house high enough to forget the world.
Quiet enough to hide the truth. Or speak it.
It was, without a doubt, the perfect place for secrets to rest or hearts to break.