How much?

...Chapter 1...

It had been eight long years since life had ripped away your only love, your father. Eight years since that date, 09.08, had become a permanent scar carved into your memory. Every year, when it came around, it pressed against your chest like a heavy stone. You smiled for the world, of course. That was what you were good at smiling when you were shattered inside. Wearing the mask, holding it in place, pretending. Because what else could you do? The world didn’t care about your grief. The passengers boarding your plane didn’t care about the ache clawing at your ribs. All they wanted was your service, your beauty, your calm, your smile.

Beautiful but sad that was your curse. A face that could light up an entire cabin, and eyes that betrayed the storm behind them.

And then there was him.

The moment you saw him, your heart skipped as though it recognized danger. He was sitting in first business class, his presence filling the space like he owned it. His legs spread wide in effortless arrogance, one arm draped along the seat as though the leather itself bent to his command. His suit was black sharp, expensive, the kind of fabric you knew would feel like sin if you touched it. Beneath it, a crisp white shirt, the top buttons undone, revealing a glimpse of tanned skin and the delicate curve of his collarbone. But it wasn’t his clothes that stole your breath. It was his eyes.

Piercing, ice blue, and merciless. They scanned you slowly, deliberately, stripping you bare without ever touching you. The look made your skin prickle and your stomach tighten. You shivered, hating that he noticed. Then his hand lifted, two fingers curling toward himself in a gesture that was both a command and an invitation. You should have ignored him. Walked on. Pretended you hadn’t seen. But you didn’t. Something in you a spark of defiance, or maybe curiosity tilted your chin up. You put on that practiced smile, the one passengers always fell for, and swayed your hips just enough with each step as you made your way toward him. A silent war began before a single word was spoken. When he finally did speak, his voice was deep, rich, the kind of sound that vibrated through your chest.

“Whiskey.”

Just one word. But he didn’t look at your face when he said it. His eyes dragged over you instead, lingering too long, making your breath catch even as anger simmered beneath your skin. You wanted to snap at him, tell him to stop staring, but your training held you in check. You brought him the drink whiskey with ice and a splash of coke, just as he ordered. But when you set it down, he didn’t immediately take it. Instead, he leaned forward, his expression unreadable. Then, with a crooked finger, he gestured again, pulling you closer. Your body obeyed before your mind caught up. You leaned in, and that was when you felt it—his breath. Hot, deliberate, brushing over the sensitive skin of your neck. It was enough to make you tremble, though you clenched your fists to hide it. His voice dropped lower, intimate, dangerous.

“How much do you cost?”

The words struck like a slap. Your eyes widened, heat flooding your chest not from shame, but from fury. You wanted to lash out, to throw the whiskey in his smug face, to scream that you were not something to be bought or sold. But your uniform weighed heavy on your shoulders, reminding you of duty, professionalism, the mask you wore so well. So instead of giving him the satisfaction of your rage, you lifted your chin. Your voice came out cold, crisp, and razor-sharp, a respectful yet cutting response. The kind of reply that told him you were not afraid, even as confusion and unwanted desire tangled deep in your stomach. And then he chuckled. A low, rumbling sound that curled around you, equal parts mockery and amusement. He finally leaned back, taking his drink at last, as though he had only been testing you. As though the entire exchange had been nothing but a game to him. But you knew, with a bone deep certainty, this was no game.

This was the beginning of something far more dangerous.

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