𝘾𝙀𝙊. - 𝘾𝙀𝙊 𝙓 𝙍𝙀𝘼𝘿𝙀𝙍

16.

━━━

"Miss Y/N,"

My mind muffles, blurred by the wave of sleepiness it drowns in. 

My body shivers against the cool, morning air, dressed business-casually, yet the crack of dawn taunts me with it's arising light. 

"Miss Y/N?"

Mr Dostoevsky's voice rips me from my exhausted daze, my arms crossed over my body to harbour any warmth my body can circulate, the shifting voices of the jet's flight attendants moving across the large, open space around us fills my mind. 

"Y-Yes- Yes, s-sir," 

I stammer, sucking a cold breath through my teeth as I force my eyes to lift wide enough to indicate an equal level of attention. My gaze shifts over a sight truly to behold.

The sleek shine of the black, lined with a small stream of silver across the private jet's body, lavish lettering plastered intentionally across its side, reading 'Slava Corp'. It's large, truly daunting in size, with the cabin crew dressed in complete black also. 

Very expensive.

I notice Mr Dosteovsky's gaze shift over my figure, upwards, meeting my eyes.

"The flight is around six to seven hours, to London. You can sleep as much as you like over the flight," 

He's commenting over how obviously exhausted I am, and yet, I don't take it in offence. It's a little humorous, even. 

Within this jet's presence, I'm scared to even breathe near it. It's so expensive. I know it's expensive; it's personalized in every single way, and I already know the inside will be just as eye-catching. 

My breath faintly shakes, a tinge of anxiety shifting my stomach as I stare at this jet. 

This jet, exclusive, personalized.

Mr Dosteovsky's suit, tailored to exact measurement with the finest materials. 

These flight attendants, dressed just as chic, professional.

The Rolex on his wrist.

The flight attendants perfectly, professionally styled buns and manicures. 

The epitome of money itself. 

The epitome of wealth, fortune, disposable income. 

It's oddly intimidating. 

Very intimidating. 

My chest rises and falls, and with Mr Dostoevsky's feet beginning to shift, I promptly follow. He passes the flight attendants by, the door pulled down to it's open level. The thin lines of steps invite us, and I watch as Mr Dostoevsky speaks to a flight attendant, before he finally begins to shift up the steps. 

I feel hesitant to even touch the railing, my scent overrun by the clean interior as my eyes curiously shift around, taking in as much as I can see. 

And as my jaw slightly unhinges to the sight, its one in which overwhelms me. 

Every single detail screams wealth, welcomed by a sidebar, the countertop laced with black, textured marble. I take in the faint smell of coffee as we turn, passing through a small hall of some sorts.

The open, main area of the jet envelops my vision, brightened by its warm lighting, white side-seats overlayed with a black, folded blanket, tables by each corner, and side-couches spread across each side. The floor details with soft, intricate, black patterns. Pillows, fluffed and neatly placed sit angular against each couch, side panels insinuating light controls and storage areas sit against each chair.