Tattooed in Moonlight

Chapter 28

Chapter 28

The helicopter ride was shorter than my nerves deserved. By the time I'd untangled my dress from the seatbelts and sworn at my veil three times, the lights of Manila spread beneath us like a restless sea.

We landed at NAIA's private terminal, the kind of place normal mortals never see—quiet, discreet, humming with security who bowed the moment Travis stepped out.

I stumbled after him, gown still swallowing my legs. "You know, most people leave weddings in cars. Maybe a limo. Normal stuff. Not... this."

Travis didn't even glance back. "Not normal."

I snorted. "Wow, what a revelation. You should put that on your family crest."

The terminal doors slid open. And there it was.

His plane.

Private jet didn't even cover it. This wasn't a plane—it was a palace with wings. Sleek, white, glowing softly under the floodlights, stairs already lowered like it had been waiting its whole life for me to board.

I stopped dead. "No. No way. That's not a plane. That's a flex."

He kept walking, calm as a shadow. "Correct."

"Do you ever get tired of being right all the time?" I muttered, gathering my skirts and stomping after him.

Inside, it was worse. Or better. Depending on how you looked at it.

Cream leather seats arranged like a living room. Tables gleaming with crystal glasses. A bedroom tucked discreetly at the back. And the faintest scent of something expensive enough to make my bank account cry.

I dropped into a seat, yanking at my veil until it came free. "This isn't a plane. This is a five-star hotel with wings."

"Six," Travis corrected, sliding into the seat across from me.

I laughed despite myself. "Of course. Why stop at five when you can invent six?"

The engines hummed, soft and low, and the plane began to move. Through the window, Manila shrank—the city, the chaos, the politics, the family drama—all fading into lights scattered against the dark.

For the first time that night, my chest loosened.

"So," I said, glancing at him. "Paris, huh?"

"Yes."

"Why Paris? Is this one of those cliché billionaire moves? Eiffel Tower, champagne, berets?"

His eyes stayed steady. "Paris is choice."

I tilted my head. "Choice?"

"Yes." He didn't elaborate. Of course he didn't.

I rolled my eyes, sinking back into the seat, gown spilling around me like a defeated meringue. "You really need to start writing footnotes for your cryptic one-liners."

He didn't reply. Just leaned back, calm, unreadable, as though flying halfway across the world after detonating a wedding bomb was the most ordinary thing in the world.

And maybe for him, it was.

For me?

It was the start of something terrifying.

Because suddenly, Paris wasn't just Paris.

It was escape. It was defiance. It was—God help me—our honeymoon.

And I had no idea what to expect.

I thought the absurdity peaked with the helicopter. Then the private jet.