Crown of the Empire

Chapter 28

Chapter 28

The first thing I noticed was the carpet.

Yes, the carpet. Because only on a private jet does the carpet look more expensive than half the condos in Makati. Deep gray, plush, and with a discreet golden crest embroidered at the aisle's center: Takedo.

I stood there in the doorway, sunglasses perched on my head, linen blazer flung carelessly over my shoulder, pretending this was normal. Like, of course, I was the type of woman who boarded luxury aircrafts for "honeymoon getaways." Of course. Totally casual.

Inside, the cabin stretched wide enough to host a fashion show. Cream leather seats that swiveled. Tables dressed with crystal. A bedroom suite tucked at the far end, because apparently flying at forty thousand feet required Egyptian cotton sheets. Flight attendants—not many, just enough to radiate discretion—greeted us with champagne flutes already chilled.

Beside me, Nikolai walked in like he'd built the plane himself. No pause, no awe. Just calm. Slate-gray shirt rolled at the sleeves, tailored black slacks, phone in hand, scanning some report like the world wasn't literally tilting at his feet.

"You're annoying," I muttered.

"Because I exist?" His eyes flicked up, cool and steady.

"Because you're calm. Who is calm in a plane with a literal bedroom in it? You could at least pretend to be impressed. Maybe gasp. Swoon. Roll your eyes at the chandelier."

His lips curved in the faintest hint of amusement. "It's practical."

"Practical?" I barked a laugh. "Oh yes, nothing screams practical like flying on your own five-star hotel in the sky. I bet the bathroom has marble floors."

It did. I checked later. Of course it did.

We settled into our seats—correction, our thrones—as a flight attendant poured champagne. "For you, Mrs. Takedo."

There it was again. Mrs. Takedo. Every time someone called me that, it fizzed in my chest like champagne bubbles. Not quite real, not quite settled.

"Do you ever get tired of people calling you by your surname like it's a brand?" I asked, swirling my glass.

Nikolai glanced at me, expression unreadable. "No. Do you?"

"Depends on the day. Today? I'm tempted to tell her to call me 'Her Banking Highness.'"

The attendant didn't flinch. Professionals, all of them. She just smiled, refilled my glass, and retreated.

I slouched dramatically in my chair. "You know, I thought our honeymoon was already over. Japan. Romantic gardens. Sushi-induced declarations. Remember that?"

"That was a teaser." He adjusted his cufflinks.

"A teaser?" I arched a brow. "Like a movie trailer? So Thailand's the full feature film?"

"Uncut," he said, eyes cutting to mine.

Heat shot straight up my neck. I fanned myself with the safety pamphlet. "You can't just say things like that on a plane, Nikolai. People have fainted from less."

This time, he didn't even bother hiding the smirk. Infuriating man.

Hours blurred—champagne, reading reports (him), pretending to read reports but actually daydreaming about pad thai (me), and finally collapsing in the bedroom mid-flight. Yes, there was a bedroom. Yes, I used it. And yes, the sheets were better than anything on earth.

When I woke, Phuket shimmered below us like a postcard—turquoise waters, green jungles, sunlight spilling like gold leaf.

The jet landed smoothly, and by the time we descended the stairs, a sleek black Rolls-Royce was waiting. Not an SUV. Not a van. A Rolls. Because subtlety was apparently not in our vocabulary anymore.