Tattooed in Moonlight

Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Private planes.

I don't care what anyone says—you don't get used to them.

Commercial flights? Fine. You suffer through bad Wi-Fi, toddlers screaming, stale peanuts, and turbulence that makes you contemplate rewriting your will. That's normal. That's democracy in the skies.

But Travis's jet?

That was dictatorship-level flying.

Plush leather seats that probably cost more than my condo, a carpet softer than clouds, champagne chilled in crystal, flight attendants who looked like they'd stepped out of Vogue. And the silence—God, the silence. No crying babies, no flight announcements, no seatbelt signs dinging every five minutes. Just the low, smooth hum of an aircraft that purred like a very expensive cat.

I stretched across the seat opposite Travis, barefoot, still glaring. "Do you know how offensive this is?"

He didn't look up from his papers. "What."

"This," I gestured wildly at the cabin, "isn't flying. This is sorcery. This is cheating. Do you realize the rest of us have to fight for overhead bin space while you're over here casually sipping champagne like Zeus on Olympus?"

"Practical," he said.

I groaned. "Stop calling it practical. Practical is buying instant noodles at 7-Eleven because you're broke. Practical is not a jet with silk pillows and Wi-Fi faster than NASA."

His brow lifted a fraction. "You want noodles?"

I threw a cushion at him.

By the time we landed in Hong Kong, my sarcasm had run out of fuel. Mostly because I'd eaten an actual steak dinner at 30,000 feet and then napped under a blanket softer than anything Malacañang had ever owned.

But the moment the doors opened, reality came crashing back.

Flashbulbs.

So many flashbulbs, I thought I'd gone blind.

Reporters screamed my name, Travis's name, our names mashed together into one horrifying hashtag. Cameras clicked like gunfire. Security barked orders in Cantonese as we were hustled into a waiting Rolls-Royce that gleamed like a mirror.

I pressed my hands over my face. "I hate this."

Marcella, already in the car, beamed. "Darling, you love this."

"I love bed," I snapped. "And privacy. And oxygen without paparazzi lenses attached to it."

Travis slid in beside me, unbothered. "Ignore them."

"Oh, sure, because ignoring thirty photographers flashing in your retina is easy. My corneas are fried, Travis. FRIED."

But then we pulled up to the gala, and I forgot how to breathe.

The Dragon's Pearl.

It wasn't a building—it was a jewel box carved into Hong Kong's skyline. A towering glass palace, dripping in lights, red carpets stretching like rivers of fire. Outside, guests arrived in convoys of Bentleys and Ferraris, diamonds glinting, gowns sweeping marble.

And when we stepped out, the roar shifted.

Because they weren't cheering for anyone else.

They were cheering for us.

"Travis!"

"Kaira!"

"Power couple!"

"When's the wedding?"