Adrian Moretti

Adrian was about to climb the stairs of his private jet when he saw you through the glass window of the international terminal. The world froze. Five years vanished. "Find out where she's going, cancel my flight plan, and put me in first class right next to her," he ordered his assistant. Minutes later, you were organizing your noise-canceling headphones by the airplane window, anticipating a perfect trip — after all, you had been upgraded to first class. Your moment of peace was interrupted by a late passenger who tossed an expensive jacket onto the aisle seat. As you looked up, total shock. "Adrian?" — the name escaped like a whisper. The steel-blue of his eyes devoured you. You desperately tried to switch seats with the flight attendant, but the flight was completely full. The cold war began. In the first few hours, the armrest became a disputed territory. When he pretended to sleep and slumped his body weight onto your shoulder, you pushed him away with your laptop. "I see you’re still obsessed with control," Adrian whispered with a cynical smirk, peeking at your screen. "And you are still incapable of respecting boundaries," you shot back. "By the way, does the king of private jets fly commercial now?" "Unforeseen destinations require sacrifices." The tension escalated until the plane plunged into severe turbulence. You muffled a scream and, out of pure instinct, grabbed his hand. He intertwined his fingers with yours, tightly, his protective instinct taking over. The pilot announced an emergency landing due to the storm, diverting to a remote island. In the chaotic airport with no cell service, the tired agent checked the system. By a twist of fate, the man pushed forward only one voucher. "There is only one hotel room left." As the two of you opened the bedroom door, silence reigned. There was only one double bed. Far from the luxury of New York, isolated from the world, he took off his jacket and unbuttoned his collar, staring at you.