Layla didn't ask questions when he told her to come.
She didn't ask why the return trip was suddenly private.
His private jet.
Just the two of them.
She climbed the steps in silence, heels clicking on metal, and took the seat farthest from his — near the window. Damian said nothing as he walked in behind her, dropped into a leather seat, and poured himself a drink.
The engine hummed low. The tension? Louder.
He didn't offer her a drink.
She didn't ask.
For a while, they just sat there.
Air between them still.
Tight.
Damian's phone lit up twice — ignored both. Layla crossed her legs, glanced at him once, then looked away fast, like she'd caught herself doing something wrong.
"You're quiet," he finally said.
She didn't look at him.
"There's nothing to say."
Silence again.
He sipped. "You could've told me you were seeing someone."
Her eyes snapped to him.
"I'm not."
"Luke seems to think you are."
Layla sat up straighter, voice firm.
"Then he's wrong."
Damian leaned back, eyes on her now. Calm. Cold.
"He looked comfortable. You didn't stop him."
"Because you didn't tell me I had to."
His jaw ticked, but he didn't answer.
Minutes passed.
The jet cut through clouds.
Then her voice, quiet.
"Why did you come down there, SIR?"
He didn't answer right away. Just stared out the window across from her.
Then said,
"Maybe I didn't like what I saw."
"What did you see?"
He looked back at her.
"A version of you that might stop needing me."
And just like that…
Layla didn't know where to put her hands.
Her breath caught.
Her stomach turned.
Her heart—traitor—fluttered.
She looked away. Again.
He was Cold. Professional.
Like the conversation never happened.
But both of them knew — it did.
Layla shifted in her seat.
The quiet was too loud now. She could hear her own breathing. The soft clink of Damian's ring tapping against his glass. The low hum of the engines underneath them.
No music. No staff. No escape.
Just them.
He leaned back, ankle resting on his knee, eyes locked on her like he was trying to figure something out. She could feel the weight of his stare.
She didn't look at him.
She couldn't.
"Is he your type?" Damian asked suddenly.
She blinked. "Who?"
He didn't answer. He didn't have to.
She scoffed softly. "That's none of your business."
He gave a half-smile. No humor. Just tension.
"Everything about you is my business."
That line—too calm. Too loaded.
She turned to face him then, brows drawn. "Why? Because I work for you?"
"Because I own you 9 to 5. And clearly, that's not enough time anymore."
Silence.
Fire in her chest.
And then—
She stood up.
Walked to the small counter near the minibar just to breathe.
He didn't stop her.
But he did follow with his eyes.
And when she turned back, he was standing too — closer than she expected. Not touching. Not threatening. Just… present.
"You looked happy with him."
"And that's a problem?"
"Yes."
It was so blunt, so raw, it stole the air from her lungs.
She hated how that made her feel.
He stepped even closer. Voice low now.
"I'm not a good man, Layla. You know that. But if you ever let someone else touch what's mine—"
She cut him off, chin raised.
"I'm not yours."
The jet gave a small shake. Just turbulence. But it felt like something bigger cracked in that space.
He stared at her for a second. Two.
Then turned, walked back to his seat.
Poured another drink.
Didn't say a word.
The silence was no longer awkward — it was thick. Heavy. Like fog. Like a storm waiting for a strike.
Layla sat back down, arms crossed. Damian didn't even look her way anymore.
He sipped his drink slowly, staring ahead. His jaw was clenched the entire time. Not a word. Not a sound.
Every few minutes, their eyes would accidentally meet.
Brief. Unreadable.
She hated how he got under her skin. How his words lingered. How he could say something so bold and go completely silent like it never happened.
She wasn't sure if she was supposed to be angry. Or shaken. Or confused.
Maybe all of it.
Outside the window, the clouds were endless. Just like the tension.
There were no crew members on this flight. No one to distract. No fake smiles. No friendly announcements. Just them and the quiet hum of a private jet cutting through sky.
She sighed. He didn't flinch.
She picked up her phone. No signal.
She leaned back. He leaned forward.
Opposites. Always.
But she could still feel him watching her out of the corner of his eye. Not fully. Not obviously. But definitely there.
Minutes passed like hours.
When the landing wheels finally came down, Layla could've sworn she exhaled for the first time in an hour.
The plane touched down smooth.
Damian stood before the seatbelt sign even went off.
He turned to her. Calm face. Blank eyes.
"Let's go."
Like nothing happened.
Like he hadn't just thrown her off balance mid-air and left her to sit in it.
She didn't move at first.
But she followed.
Because that's what she always did — until she couldn't anymore.