📖 Chapter 5: Turbulence

The Brooks Global private airstrip was bathed in the harsh, white glow of floodlights. Sitting on the tarmac like a sleek, silver bird of prey was a custom Gulfstream G650.

Pearl stepped out of the black SUV, clutching her overnight bag. She had spent the last three hours frantically packing, arranging the Paris logistics, and aggressively repeating a single mantra in her head: You are the Chief Executive Assistant. You belong here. Do not look intimidated.

She channeled every ounce of her professional composure as she walked up the airstairs. But the moment she stepped inside the cabin, her composure nearly shattered.

It did not look like an airplane; it looked like a five-star luxury penthouse in the sky. The interior was lined with rich mahogany paneling, plush cream-colored leather seats, and ambient gold lighting. There was a full bar, a private bedroom suite in the back, and a large dining table.

Damien was already onboard.

He was sitting in one of the oversized leather captain’s chairs, reviewing a tablet. The ruthless CEO armor was slightly dismantled. He had discarded his suit jacket, and his silk tie was loosened and hanging undone around his neck. The top two buttons of his crisp white dress shirt were undone, exposing the strong, tanned column of his throat.

Pearl swallowed hard, forcing her eyes away from his chest.

"Take the seat across from me," Damien ordered without looking up from his tablet.

Pearl obeyed, sinking into the absurdly soft leather chair facing him. A private flight attendant in a sharp uniform immediately appeared, offering them hot towels and a menu, but Damien waved her off.

"Just drinks, Elena. A scotch for me, neat," Damien said, finally glancing up at Pearl. "And pour Miss Alex a glass of the Bordeaux."

Oh, no thank you, Pearl corrected politely. I’ll just have water. I need to keep a clear head to review the Laurent Tech merger files.

Damien’s eyes darkened slightly, a flicker of amusement dancing in the stormy grey depths. We are in the air for seven hours, Pearl. The French board won't even be awake until we land. Drink the wine.

It wasn't a request. Pearl nodded at the flight attendant, who quickly returned with a heavy crystal tumbler of amber scotch for Damien and a long-stemmed glass of rich, ruby-red wine for Pearl.

Ten minutes later, the jet’s engines roared to life, pressing Pearl back into her seat as they launched into the night sky.

Once they reached cruising altitude, the cabin settled into a quiet, pressurized hum. Pearl opened the thick Laurent Tech file on her lap, uncapped her silver pen, and began to read. She was determined to prove that she was focused entirely on business. She kept her posture perfect, her face completely neutral, and took small, elegant sips of her wine.

She was doing beautifully. She was the picture of calm, corporate competence.

Until the plane suddenly plunged over the Atlantic Ocean.

It happened without warning. There was no chime from the cockpit, no announcement from the pilot. The massive jet hit a violent, sudden pocket of dead air and plummeted.

Pearl let out a sharp gasp as her stomach vaulted into her throat. The sudden drop jerked her entirely out of her seat against her seatbelt.

Her hands flew up to brace herself, but she was still holding the wine glass.

The dark red Bordeaux launched out of the crystal glass like a tidal wave. It bypassed the small table between them and splashed directly onto the center of Damien’s chest.

The plane instantly stabilized, returning to a smooth, quiet glide.

But inside the cabin, time completely stopped.

Pearl froze, her dark eyes wide with absolute, unadulterated horror. The empty crystal glass was shaking in her hand.

Damien was sitting perfectly still. A massive, soaking wet stain of dark red wine covered the front of his pristine white dress shirt, dripping slowly down the expensive fabric and pooling against the leather seat belt across his lap.

Pearl’s mind completely short-circuited.

He fired a woman for wearing strong perfume. The breakroom rumor violently echoed in her brain. He fired a Vice President for a data leak. I just ruined a bespoke Italian shirt and threw alcohol on the Ice King.

Mr. Brooks, I—Pearl choked out, her professional facade completely disintegrating into raw panic. I am so sorry. Oh my god, I am so sorry.

She didn't think. She just reacted. Pearl unbuckled her seatbelt, grabbed a stack of white linen napkins from the center console, and dropped to her knees right in front of him.

"I didn't mean to, the drop was just so sudden," she rambled frantically, her hands shaking as she pressed the napkins against his chest to soak up the wine. "I will pay for the dry cleaning, I will buy you a new shirt, I—"

"Pearl."

His voice was a low, heavy rumble that vibrated directly against her palms, which were currently pressed flat against his chest.

She froze.

Her face was mere inches from his torso. She could feel the hard, defined wall of muscle beneath the ruined, wet silk of his shirt. She could feel the steady, powerful thud of his heartbeat directly under her fingertips. It wasn't racing. It was calm.

Slowly, Pearl dragged her eyes up to meet his, fully expecting to see the murderous, icy rage that had destroyed Marcus Sterling just hours ago.

Instead, Damien was looking down at her with an expression that made her breath completely vanish.

His jaw wasn't clenched in anger. His stormy eyes were dark, heavy, and burning with a completely different kind of intensity. He didn't care about the shirt. He didn't care about the wine. All he cared about was the fact that she was currently on her knees between his thighs, her soft hands pressed desperately against his chest.

Damien slowly reached out. He didn't push her away. Instead, his large, warm hands wrapped gently around her trembling wrists.

Breathe, Pearl, Damien murmured, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that sent a shockwave of heat straight down to her toes.

Your shirt, Pearl whispered back, her voice shaking, entirely unable to move away from his magnetic pull. It’s ruined.

Damien’s thumbs slowly stroked the sensitive skin of her inner wrists, a highly intimate, totally un-corporate gesture. His eyes dropped to her lips, lingering there for a long, torturous second before dragging back up to her wide, panicked eyes.

It’s just a shirt, Damien said softly, the Ice King completely melting away in the dim cabin light. "Are you hurt?

Pearl shook her head slowly, completely hypnotized by the sudden, overwhelming tenderness in the most dangerous man she had ever met.

"Good," Damien whispered, his grip on her wrists tightening just a fraction, pulling her a millimeter closer. "Because I can replace a shirt. I cannot replace you."