The Stolen Sapphire: His Fake Girlfriend

The seat beside her remained empty for twenty minutes. When Mr. Stephens returned, he was wearing a different pair of trousers-black, casual slacks that somehow looked more expensive than the suit pants he'd ruined.

He sat down without a word. He didn't look at her. He put on a pair of noise-canceling headphones, effectively building a wall between them.

Belle wanted to apologize again, but the set of his jaw told her to save her breath. Besides, she had bigger problems.

The turbulence wasn't stopping. The pilot announced their descent into JFK, and the plane bucked like a wounded animal. Every drop sent Belle's stomach into a fresh spasm. Sweat beaded on her forehead, cold and sticky.

It wasn't just motion sickness. It was the stress, the lack of sleep, the three years of running on adrenaline and cheap coffee. Her body was staging a revolt.

Ding.

"Cabin crew, prepare for landing."

The plane banked sharply to the right. The cabin tilted.

Belle gagged. She unbuckled her seatbelt. She knew the sign was on, but if she didn't get to the bathroom right now, she was going to be sick right here.

She tried to stand up.

It was a mistake.

Her legs were water. The floor seemed to tilt away from her feet. The cabin spun in a sickening kaleidoscope of grey and beige. Black spots danced in her vision, blotting out the light.

She reached out blindly for support.

Her hand found warm fabric. An arm. A shoulder.

She didn't feel the impact, but she felt the heat. She collapsed forward, her body giving up the fight. She landed heavily against something solid and smelling of sandalwood and crisp linen. The scent was a ghost in the room, painfully familiar, stirring a memory she kept locked away. But it couldn't be. The man attached to the scent was a monster, not a savior. The thought was dismissed as quickly as it came, a fever-induced hallucination.

For a second, she was conscious enough to realize her face was pressed into the crook of a man's neck. Her breath, hot and ragged, fanned against his skin.

From the aisle, a flight attendant gasped. To anyone watching, it looked like the crazy girl in 1B had just thrown herself onto the billionaire in 2A.

Denis Stephens froze.

He felt the weight of her crash against him. He pulled his headphones down, ready to shove her off. This woman was a menace. First the milk, now this? Was she drunk? Was this some elaborate, pathetic attempt at a seduction?

He looked down.

She wasn't moving. Her skin, where it touched his neck, was burning up. He could smell her-beneath the stale plane air, she smelled of vanilla and fear.

She wasn't faking.

Denis looked at her hand, which was clutching his lapel like a lifeline. Her knuckles were white.

"Sir!" The flight attendant rushed forward, hands fluttering. "I can call security upon landing. She is clearly intoxicated."

Denis felt the girl's body shudder against him. A small, pained whimper escaped her lips.

"She's not drunk," Denis said, his voice cutting through the attendant's panic. "She's sick."

He didn't push her away. Instead, his hand moved-hesitantly at first, then firmly-to her waist. He held her there, anchoring her against the sway of the landing plane. Her waist was impossibly small under the leather jacket. She felt fragile, like a bird with hollow bones.

It was an annoying sensation. He didn't do fragile. He didn't do caretaking.

But he didn't let go.

The landing gear deployed with a mechanical thud. The plane hit the tarmac, bouncing once before settling. The reverse thrusters roared.

Through it all, Belle remained slumped against him, unconscious.

When the plane finally taxied to the gate, Denis tapped her cheek. Not gently.

"Wake up."

Belle groaned. Her eyelashes fluttered. She peeled herself off him, blinking in confusion. Her eyes were glassy. She looked at him, then at his shirt, realizing she had been using him as a pillow.

She scrambled back, hitting the armrest. "I... I didn't..."

"Is this a new hustle?" Denis asked, his tone dry. "Assault by dairy, followed by fainting?"

Belle wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She looked terrible. "Don't flatter yourself," she rasped. "I'm sick."

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She fumbled for it.

"Adan," she whispered into the phone. Her voice was a wreck. "Help me. I'm at the gate. I can't walk."

Denis watched her. She was trying to gather her things, but her hands were useless. She dropped her passport.

He sighed. It was a sound of pure inconvenience.

He signaled the flight attendant. "Get a wheelchair and ground crew. Now."

Belle looked up at him, surprised.

Denis stood up, buttoning his jacket. He smoothed the lapel she had crushed. He looked immaculate again, the wall re-erected.

"Try not to vomit on anyone else," he said coldly.

He grabbed his briefcase and walked away without looking back. But as he exited the jet bridge, he didn't leave immediately. He stood by the window for a fleeting second, watching as a frantic young man with tattoos ran past the gate agents toward the plane.

Only then did Denis check his watch and walk away.