Chapter five

BLACKMAIL

The soft hum of the jet fills the cabin as I finish my pre-flight checklist.

Everything is perfect. Drinks chilled, snacks arranged, blankets folded neatly. The cabin smells faintly of lavender and leather, the kind of subtle luxury only billionaires can afford.

Then Steve walks in.

He stops mid-step, eyes scanning me like he’s seeing every detail for the first time. There’s something… different in his gaze. Sharp, almost cold, like he’s calculating, measuring. A little part of me freezes.

“Good morning, Steve,” I say, forcing my tone to stay professional.

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. The look is strange, unsettling, like he’s hiding something behind that smooth exterior.

I step aside for him, giving a polite nod. “Cabin’s ready, everything’s perfect.”

He gives a slight, acknowledging nod and leans casually against a seat. The pilot announces we’re cleared for takeoff, engines roar, and soon we’re lifting gracefully into the sky.

I head to the staff cabin, as usual, settling into my seat. Steve gives me a quick glance, as if watching whether I move properly, then walks away toward the main cabin. I let out a quiet breath, thinking it’s his usual routine: leaving me to manage the cabin while he relaxes.

But he doesn’t go.

I hear the soft click of his phone. He steps into the doorway, holding it out toward me.

“What—” I start, but my words die in my throat.

On the screen is a video.

It’s us.

The jet. Me.

A video of us fucking in his jet.

My face is fully visible. My body… unmistakable. Steve’s face is blurred out, but I don’t need to see him to know it’s from one of our past encounters.

I recoil. My pulse jumps. “What the hell?! Why would you film me?! That’s illegal! This is my body, my life! How could you even think that’s okay?!”

My chest is tight, my stomach a twisting knot I can’t undo.

Steve leans casually in the doorway of the staff cabin, phone in hand. That same unnerving, calculated smile on his lips.

“This is simple,” he says. “You either become my personal… plaything, and make sure my shipments, my private cargo—get cleared whenever I need, or your video goes public. Every single one of your followers will see it.”

He wants me to be involve, in his illegal drug trafficking.

I freeze. Terror seeps into every nerve. Millions of eyes. My face. My body. My reputation. My freedom.

“And,” he continues, voice lowering into something lethal, “if you even think about going to the police… you’ll regret it. You’ll be ruined before you even step foot in a courtroom.”

What the fuck did I get myself involved in? My mind screams. I try to move, to breathe, to think—but I can’t. I’m frozen. My eyes widen with pure terror.

He rounds it up like a predator circling prey. “Two days. That’s your deadline. Decide. And Amelia…” He lets the words hang. “…don’t disappoint me.”

Then he’s gone. The door closes behind him, leaving a silence so heavy it presses against my eardrums.

I slump into the chair, exhausted, devastated, shaking. My hands cover my face. My chest rises and falls erratically.

When the flight finally lands in Luxembourg, the crew is buzzing, ready for a city tour, fancy restaurants, sightseeing, photo ops for social media but I can’t move. I stay in the hotel room, wrapped in blankets, staring at the floor, confused and paralyzed.

Hours pass. My mind spins in circles. I feel the crushing weight of a million choices that aren’t really choices. My body hums with frustration and fear.

Finally, I force myself up. Hoodie over my head, baggy sweats, no makeup. I don’t care how I look. I just need to get out, to forget, to drown the tension that Steve’s threats planted inside me.

I hail a cab to a notorious bar I’ve read about online, dark, crowded, infamous. Perfect for disappearing. Perfect for losing myself.

But the moment I try to enter, a bouncer blocks me. “Not dressed for entry,” he says, eyes scanning me like I’m a mistake in his orderly world.

I argue, loud and heated, nearly being thrown back into the street. I’m furious. Frustrated. Humiliated. I throw up my hands.

Then he steps forward.

A man in a black suit, slightly unbuttoned shirt, tattoos peeking from the collar and sleeves, tall and broad, masculine in a way that makes the whole bar feel smaller.

Behind him, two massive bouncers flank his sides like walls of muscle.

He waves a hand, casual but commanding. “Let her in.”

I stare at him, barely catching my breath. “Thank you,” I mumble, moving quickly past the shocked bar crowd.

Inside, I order drinks after drinks, letting the burn of alcohol in my throat distract me from the fear gnawing at my chest. People stare. Whispers follow. Some smiles. Some suspicion. I don’t care. I just need to forget.

Finally, one of the bouncers leans close. “Follow me.”

I comply immediately, curiosity mixing with fear. He leads me down a narrow staircase, through twisting hallways, past dimly lit rooms. The noise of the bar disappears, replaced by the muffled heartbeat of anticipation.

We arrive at a heavy door. The bouncer knocks twice, waits, then gestures for me to enter. I do.

Inside, the room smells faintly of cigar smoke and expensive leather. A large desk dominates the space, cluttered with files, papers, and a sleek laptop. Behind it sits the same man, the boss.

He doesn’t stand. He doesn’t even look up immediately. His fingers tap rapidly against a pen, eyes scanning documents.

The air around him hums with authority, danger, and a cold, calculated patience.

Finally, he looks up. His eyes are sharp, intelligent, and unreadable.

He gestures to the chair in front of him. “Sit.”

I obey, heart hammering in my chest. Every instinct tells me to run. Every rational thought screams, get out.

But I stay, because curiosity and fear are both dangerous lures.