Flight 3

The hum of the engines as the plane takes off is oddly soothing. It’s a noise I’ve grown used to, something that’s always been part of my life. The vibrations of the aircraft beneath my feet, the soft whirr of the turbines, the gentle sway of the sky—it’s like a familiar lullaby I’ve listened to for years. But today, it feels different. There’s a tension in the air, something I can’t quite explain, something thick and unspoken, almost electric.

Today, I’m on a private flight from New York to Los Angeles. The sort of flight that only a select few can afford. I’ve flown on private jets before, but something about this one feels... different. Maybe it’s the weight of anticipation. Or maybe it’s the passenger I’ve been assigned to. Adrian Blackwell.

His name has been lingering in the back of my mind ever since that first time I heard it, that first whisper of his presence among the other crew members. It’s impossible to ignore someone like him. A billionaire, famous for his cold demeanor, his reclusive lifestyle. But there’s a side to him that I haven’t been able to understand, a quiet sadness that seems to hang over him like a dark cloud.

I’ve prepared myself mentally, reminding myself to stay professional. My job isn’t to get caught up in the stories or mysteries of the passengers. It’s to serve, to do my job, and to do it with a smile. But the moment I step onto the jet, the moment I see him sitting there, a part of me can’t help but be intrigued.

He’s seated in the plush leather chair of the private jet’s lounge area, the luxury of the space almost laughable in its opulence. His dark suit, tailored to perfection, seems to swallow him up, as though it’s a second skin that perfectly reflects his distant, controlled nature. He’s staring out the window, his expression neutral, his jaw set in that tight, unreadable way that makes it impossible to tell what he’s thinking.

I pause for a moment, taking him in from the doorway. His presence is commanding. It’s not just the wealth that makes him stand out—it’s the way he carries himself. It’s the quiet confidence, the air of mystery that surrounds him. The way he seems untouched by everything around him. I feel like I’m looking at a portrait, a man who’s beyond reach. A man whose emotions are locked away in some hidden chamber, away from anyone who might try to understand him.

I clear my throat, pushing away the fleeting thought that perhaps I’m not the one who should be trying to understand him.

“Mr. Blackwell,” I say, my voice steady, professional. “Welcome aboard. My name is Isla Martinez, and I’ll be your flight attendant today.”

He turns his head slightly toward me, his gaze sharp, but there’s no warmth in his eyes—just the same cold, distant look that I’ve heard so much about. For a brief moment, our eyes lock, and I feel something shift. A silent recognition, maybe, or maybe it’s just the fleeting connection that comes with being near someone who lives a life that’s completely foreign to me.

His lips curl into a brief, almost imperceptible smile, but it’s empty, like the smile is a mask to cover whatever lies beneath.

“Ms. Martinez,” he replies, his voice low, smooth, and indifferent. “I trust everything will be in order.”

It’s not a question, more of a statement. He doesn’t ask if I’m prepared. He doesn’t ask for anything specific. It’s almost like he assumes I’ll do my job without question, as if it’s a given.

“Of course, Mr. Blackwell,” I reply, forcing a polite smile. I move toward the small fridge in the back of the cabin to retrieve his drink. My movements are smooth, practiced, as if I’ve done this a thousand times. And in many ways, I have. But there’s something about his presence that makes my usual routine feel... off.

I can’t help but glance back at him as I prepare the drink. He’s watching me from the corner of his eye, his gaze unreadable, but there’s something about it—something that makes my skin prickle. He’s not looking at me like I’m just another flight attendant. There’s a weight to his attention, as if he’s sizing me up, trying to figure me out.

I’m not used to this feeling. I’m used to being invisible. I’m used to the passengers I serve. I’m used to the detached politeness, the thank-yous, and the occasional flirty comment that I politely brush off. But Adrian Blackwell is different. There’s a rawness to his gaze, an intensity that catches me off guard.

I push the thought aside. I’ve got a job to do, and that’s all that matters. I hand him the drink, making sure my fingers don’t brush his when I pass it to him. The last thing I need is to get distracted by whatever this pull is.

“Here you go, Mr. Blackwell,” I say, my voice steady.

He takes the drink without a word, his eyes flicking down to it briefly before returning to me.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice still cool.

I nod, about to move away, when he speaks again, his tone shifting just slightly—enough that I notice.

“You’ve flown on many private jets, I assume?” he asks, his question not exactly a casual one. It feels calculated, as if he’s probing for something.

I glance at him, surprised by the question. It’s not what I expected. But I don’t let it show. I’ve been trained to deal with all sorts of people, to maintain my composure, no matter what.

“A few,” I answer. “It’s part of the job, Mr. Blackwell.”

His eyes narrow just slightly, as though he’s trying to discern something from my answer. For a moment, I wonder if I’ve said something wrong. But then, just as quickly, he turns his attention back to the window, his posture stiffening again. The conversation ends just as abruptly as it began.

The tension in the air is palpable, but I don’t allow it to affect me. I move about the cabin, checking on the other passengers, offering snacks, refilling drinks. But my mind keeps drifting back to him—Adrian Blackwell. The way he looked at me, the cool detachment, the brief flicker of something else that passed through his eyes. It’s as if he’s built an impenetrable wall around himself, and I’m left standing on the other side, trying to figure out how to break it down.

I finish my rounds quickly, keeping my distance, trying to remain professional. But every now and then, I catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye. His body language is closed off, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze faraway and unfocused. He seems so... untouchable.

I wonder if he’s always like this. If the weight of his loneliness is something he carries with him wherever he goes, like a constant companion. He doesn’t seem like someone who finds comfort in other people. Not in the way I do.

The flight continues, and as we approach Los Angeles, the plane begins its descent. I’ve had enough time to observe him, to try and understand what makes him tick—though I still don’t have any answers. The mystery only deepens.

As the seatbelt sign dings on, I walk past him again, offering a polite smile. He looks up, catching my eye for a moment. There’s a flicker of something there, something hard to describe. But before I can even analyze it, he looks away, his attention shifting elsewhere.

I finish my tasks, the flight ending as it always does. As the passengers begin to disembark, I feel an odd sense of disappointment. I can’t quite place it, but I wonder if this is what it feels like to be intrigued. To be caught in someone’s orbit without fully understanding why.

Adrian Blackwell steps off the plane without so much as a backward glance, his presence lingering in the air long after he’s gone.

And just like that, the flight is over. But for some reason, I can’t stop thinking about the man who barely said a word to me.