Three days later, Chloe was staring at the flight manifest for AA 107 to Paris, her blood running cold. There, in bold black letters, was the name: Gillespie, E. First Class, Suite 1A.

It wasn't a coincidence. It couldn't be. He had specifically booked this flight. Her flight. And she was the designated First Class flight attendant.

She had tried to swap the trip. She had begged the scheduler, offered bribes, even faked a stomach bug. Nothing worked. "Staffing is tight, Carr," the scheduler had said. "You're going to Paris."

Now she was standing in the galley, her hands shaking as she checked the champagne temperature. The cabin was empty except for him. He was sitting in the private suite by the window, reading a financial report on his tablet. He hadn't even looked up when she boarded.

The doors closed, and the plane pushed back. Chloe went through the safety demo on autopilot, her voice a monotone. He didn't watch. He just kept reading.

After takeoff, the seatbelt sign dinged off. Chloe took a deep breath and grabbed the wine list. She had a job to do. She would be professional. She would pretend that night at Elysium never happened. She would pretend he was just another passenger.

She walked to his suite, her heels sinking into the plush carpet. "Sir, would you care for a beverage before dinner?" she asked, her voice steady.

He didn't look up. "Water. Sparkling. No ice."

She brought the water. He took it without a word. She brought the hot towels. He took one. She brought the dinner menu. He nodded. It was maddening. He was treating her like a ghost. Like she was invisible.

An hour into the flight, it was time to serve the wine. Chloe pushed the cart down the aisle, her movements precise. She poured the Bordeaux into a crystal glass. She reached over to place it on his tray table.

Just as she leaned down, the plane hit an air pocket. The floor dropped out from under her. The plane shuddered, a violent lurch that threw Chloe off balance. She stumbled, her hand jerking.

The glass tipped. The dark red wine sloshed over the rim, landing directly on Emilio's lap. It soaked into the light gray fabric of his tailored trousers, spreading like a stain across his thigh. A very sensitive area of his thigh.

Chloe gasped. "Oh my God. I am so sorry, sir." She grabbed a napkin, instinctively reaching out to dab at the stain.

Emilio caught her wrist. His grip was like iron, stopping her mid-motion. He looked up, his dark eyes locking onto hers. The mask of indifference was gone. In its place was something dark, something predatory.

"My suite. Now," he said, his voice barely a whisper but cutting through the engine noise like a knife.

Chloe froze. "Sir, I can bring you a towel and some soda water-"

"I said now." He released her wrist and stood up, blocking the aisle. He gestured toward the private bathroom attached to his suite. "Clean it."

Chloe looked around. The other passengers were engrossed in their movies or sleeping. The curtains around the suite were drawn. She was trapped. He was the CEO. He was the boss. If she refused, she could lose her job.

She grabbed the cleaning kit, her hands trembling, and followed him into the bathroom. It was tiny, barely enough room for one person, let alone two. The door clicked shut behind her, and the lock engaged.

Emilio leaned against the sink, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked down at the stain, then back at her. "Well? Get to work."

Chloe swallowed hard. She wet the cloth and knelt down on the floor. The position was humiliating. She was on her knees in front of her boss, in a bathroom on a plane, with a wine stain inches from his crotch. She reached out, her hand shaking, and began to dab at the fabric.

Her fingers brushed against him. He was hard. The realization hit her like a thunderbolt. She jerked her hand back, her face burning.

Before she could stand up, his hand shot out, fisting in her hair. He pulled her to her feet and spun her around, slamming her back against the door. The mirror was cold against her shoulder blades.

"You think a little spill makes us even?" he asked, his face inches from hers. His breath was warm on her cheek. "You think you can buy me for a night and then pretend I don't exist?"

"I didn't know who you were," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I thought you were-"

"A whore?" he supplied, his voice silky and dangerous. "Is that what you thought I was?"

He didn't give her time to answer. He kissed her, hard and punishing. It wasn't like the first night, when she was the one in control. This was a takeover. He pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, his other hand gripping her hip, holding her in place.

She struggled, turning her head away. "Stop. Someone will hear."

"Let them," he muttered against her neck. "You bought me for the night, remember? I'm just delivering the service you paid for." He bit down gently on her earlobe. "I'm just collecting."

Paris was supposed to be an escape. It was supposed to be a fresh start. Instead, it felt like a continuation of the nightmare.

Chloe dragged her suitcase through the arrivals hall at Charles de Gaulle, her body aching. The flight had been the longest eight hours of her life. After the bathroom, Emilio had simply zipped up, walked out, and ignored her for the rest of the trip. He hadn't even looked at her when he deplaned.

She followed the signs to the crew bus, but her phone buzzed. A text from the scheduler: "Crew hotel overbooked. Alternate accommodations sent to your email. Take the RER B to Gare du Nord."

Of course. Nothing could be easy. She didn't want to take the train. She wanted a hot shower and a stiff drink. She pulled up the email on her phone, squinting at the address. It was a boutique hotel near the Marais. She sighed at the unfamiliar address, quickly entering it into her phone's map app to get her bearings before putting the phone away.

She walked out into the cold Paris evening, the wind biting through her uniform jacket. She pulled her scarf tighter and started walking, looking for a taxi stand. The streets were crowded, the air thick with exhaust and the smell of roasted chestnuts.

She was checking the map on her phone, trying to figure out which way to turn, when she heard the roar of a scooter engine behind her. It was loud, getting closer. She stepped aside to let it pass, but it didn't pass.

A hand grabbed the strap of her crossbody bag. The force was incredible, yanking her forward. She stumbled, her heel catching on the cobblestone. She fell hard, her knees slamming into the pavement, her palms scraping the rough stone. The scooter accelerated, the thief ripping the bag off her shoulder.

"Hey!" she screamed, scrambling to her feet. "Help! Au secours!"

But the scooter was already gone, disappearing around the corner in a blur of black and chrome. A few pedestrians stopped, looking at her with a mix of pity and curiosity. An older woman clucked her tongue and said something in French that Chloe didn't understand.

Chloe stood there, shaking. Her knees were bleeding, her palms were raw, and her bag was gone. Her passport. Her wallet. Her phone. Her hotel key. Everything.

A bystander helped her into a nearby cafe and called the police. An hour later, she was sitting in a cold, fluorescent-lit police station, holding a cup of terrible coffee. The officer behind the desk took her statement with a bored expression.

"Mademoiselle, these things happen," he said in accented English. "The scooters, they are fast. We will look for your bag, but..." He shrugged. "It is unlikely."

Unlikely. She was stuck in Paris with no passport, no money, and no phone. She couldn't check into her hotel. She couldn't buy a plane ticket home. She couldn't even call the embassy until morning.

She tried to remember the phone numbers of her crew members, but she didn't have a phone to call them with. She asked the police officer if she could use the station phone, but he just pointed to a payphone in the hall that was out of order.

She walked out of the police station into the freezing night. She had nowhere to go. She walked for hours, the cold seeping into her bones, her stomach growling with hunger. She felt like a ghost, drifting through the City of Lights, invisible and alone.

Eventually, her feet carried her to a grand boulevard. She looked up and saw the name of a hotel. The Ritz. No, not the Ritz. The Plaza Athénée. It was one of the most expensive hotels in Paris. And it was where Emilio Gillespie was staying. She had seen it on the passenger manifest.

She didn't know why she walked there. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was desperation. She stopped across the street, huddled in a doorway, watching the doormen in their top hats and the luxury cars pulling up.

She was a mess. Her uniform was dirty and torn, her face was streaked with tears and dirt, her knees were caked with dried blood. She didn't belong there. She didn't belong anywhere.

She sank down onto the cold stone steps, wrapping her arms around her knees. She was completely, utterly alone. The irony wasn't lost on her. She had tried to buy a man to forget her loneliness, and now she was more alone than ever.

Up above, on the top floor of the hotel, a figure stood behind the glass. Emilio Gillespie lowered the binoculars. He had watched the scooter snatch her bag. He had watched her fall. He had watched her walk, step by painful step, until she ended up right where he wanted her.

He picked up the phone. "Bring her in."