The Flight Back

“Wait. You said you didn’t remember anything,” Maya says, pointing a frustrated finger directly in my face.

I look down at her slender finger, then back up at her furious green eyes, and slowly roll my eyes.

“I don’t,” I reply, stepping closer to her. She has to crane her neck to keep looking up at me, our height difference suddenly very obvious. My temples thrum with a dull, persistent ache that matches the rhythm of my heartbeat, a reminder of the sheer volume of alcohol we consumed. “But the state of the room when I woke up this morning was a very clear indication of a good night.” I take another step, closing the gap between us. She doesn't back down, her jaw set defiantly. “There was a trail of clothes leading all the way from the door straight to the bed. That means we were both too engrossed in our passion to give a damn about who was whose type,” I state matter-of-factly, letting a slow wink slip. “Not to mention, you’re currently sporting my signature ‘fucked out’ look.”

Maya’s green eyes grow wide with shock. She lets out a sharp huff, taking a giant step back to put some distance between us. She clutches the white sheet tightly around her chest, wrapping her arms around herself as if the fabric could shield her from the reality of the situation. Her knuckles are white from the strain. Raking her fingers through her tangled hair, she looks incredibly frustrated.

“Wow. I’m not even going to dignify that remark with a response.” She stops her frantic pacing across the floor and stares at me again, her breathing shallow. “What are we going to do? Is this marriage even legal?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Her shoulders slump instantly, and she shakes her head, all the color draining from her face.

“How? How did they even marry us while we were drunk? This makes no sense.” She catches herself, her voice rising in panic. “Don't you need to apply for a marriage license or something?”

I shrug, keeping my expression calm. I set my coffee cup down on the counter and pick up the crumpled paper from the table.

“That's the magic of this city, sweetheart. Anything can happen in Vegas. Here, I found this in my pocket this morning.”

She hesitates, then takes the paper from my hand, unfolding it with trembling fingers.

“What is this?”

“Our marriage certificate. Signed by us both, quite haphazardly.”

She reads through the document, her eyes darting across the official seals and our messy signatures. Finally, she looks up at me, her expression a mix of disbelief and sheer panic.

“Oh my God, we’re actually married,” she mumbles, leaning heavily against the edge of the dining table for support.

I let out a soft sigh and rub the back of my neck. She looks genuinely upset, staring blankly at the floor as the reality sinks in. I feel a familiar, uncomfortable knot tighten in my chest. I have never been good at consoling upset women. Emotional scenes make me incredibly uncomfortable; I usually freeze up or try to find the nearest exit. But since I can't escape my own hotel suite, I have to deal with it.

“Hey, look, it’s not the end of the world,” I tell her, my voice softening slightly. “I'm sure we're not the first couple to get drunk and make a mistake in Vegas. We’ll get a swift annulment, and we’ll go on with our lives like it never happened.”

She lifts her gaze to meet mine. The sadness swimming in her olive-green eyes sends a brief, unexpected tremor through me. It's a raw, vulnerable look that catches me off guard.

Eventually, she nods, forcing herself to straighten up. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” She sighs, looking around the massive penthouse suite in bewilderment, then frowns, scratching her head awkwardly. “Uh,” she starts, chewing on her bottom lip—a nervous habit I'm quickly starting to notice. “I can’t find my dress...”

I let my eyes roam around the room, catching sight of a stray piece of fabric near the couch. The sheet she is wearing slips slightly, revealing the curve of her collarbone and a small pink mark on her neck—a love bite from last night that serves as undeniable proof of what we did. “I also need to figure out how the hell I’m going to get back home,” she adds, her voice trailing off.

“Oh, I’ve already sorted that,” I inform her. “Our flight back to London leaves in two hours.”

She blinks at me, her mouth dropping open slightly. “London? Two hours?”

“Yes. And I’ve already arranged for some fresh clothes to be delivered for both of us. I guessed your size—you look about a size ten.” I gesture to the coffee pot. “Coffee?”

She continues to stare at me, her brow furrowed. “Thank you. You really didn’t have to do that. Please let me know how much I owe you for the clothes and the flight, and I’ll pay you back.”

She lifts the mug to her lips and takes a long, slow sip. Closing her eyes, she lets out a soft, appreciative sigh. I watch her, noticing how the tension in her shoulders eases slightly under the influence of the caffeine. I hadn't realized I was staring until her eyes snap open and she catches me. She frowns, her cheeks turning a light shade of pink.

I quickly shake my head and turn away. “Don’t worry about it. It’s no problem. I’m sure you’d like to shower and freshen up. I didn’t order breakfast because I wasn’t sure what you’d like to eat. Why don’t you go ahead and order us some room service while I use the master bathroom?”

She nods hesitantly. “Okay. I can do that.”

I disappear into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. Under the spray of hot water, I let the steam work on my hangover. My head is still pounding, but the hot water helps ease the tension in my shoulders. I lean my forehead against the cool tile, letting the water run down my back. How the hell did I let this happen? I'm Declan Vance. I run an international enterprise. I don't get drunk and marry strangers.

Once I'm out of the shower, I wrap a towel around my waist and step back into the bedroom to retrieve the clothes that have been delivered. A simple charcoal suit and a crisp white shirt for me. For Maya, a casual outfit—jeans and a black tee.

I make two quick business calls to my office in London, checking in on the status of a major merger we're finalizing this week. My assistant answers on the second ring, her voice crisp. I keep the calls short, keeping my voice low so Maya doesn't hear me through the walls.

When I step back into the living area, the scent of toasted bread and fresh fruit fills the room. Maya is sitting at the dining table, already dressed in the clothes I ordered. The tight-fit light blue jeans hug her curves perfectly, and the low-cut black tee shows off the delicate line of her collarbone. Her hair is damp, falling in loose waves around her shoulders. She looks clean, fresh, and incredibly appealing.

My stomach grumbles. I sit down opposite her and reach for the avocado toast she ordered. The food is exactly what I need to soak up the residual alcohol. We eat in mostly silence, the quiet clinking of cutlery the only sound in the room. Maya eats slowly, her eyes darting to me occasionally before looking back down at her plate.

“Feeling better?” I ask, wiping my mouth with a napkin.

“Much,” she says, offering a small, tentative smile. “The food helped.”

“Good. We should head out. The car is waiting downstairs.”

The drive to the private airfield is quick. Maya sits on the opposite side of the leather seats, her gaze fixed on the passing scenery of the Strip. She seems lost in her own thoughts, her fingers tracing the seam of jeans.

When the SUV pulls up right next to my private jet, she looks out the window, and her jaw drops. She steps out of the car, looking up at the sleek, white aircraft with my company's logo subtly embossed near the tail.

“Whoa,” she breathes, turning to look at me as I step out behind her. “This is yours?”

“Sure is, sweetheart,” I say, offering a faint smirk. I gesture toward the stairs. “After you.”

I'm eager to get back to London. My head still aches, and the mountain of work waiting for me on my desk isn't going to resolve itself. I follow her up the metal steps and into the cabin.

The interior of the jet is spacious, lined with cream leather seats, a polished wood table, and a small bar. Maya steps inside and hesitates, looking around the cabin as if she's afraid she might break something. She stands near the doorway, her hands fumbling in front of her.

I slide into one of the wide leather seats and watch her. She looks nervous, her bottom lip caught between her teeth again.

“You plan on standing there the entire ten hours of the flight?” I tease, leaning back in my seat. “Take a seat. I won’t bite unless you ask.”

Her cheeks instantly flush. She mutters something under her breath—something that sounds suspiciously like an insult—and slides into the seat directly across from me. She immediately turns her head to stare out the window, her fingers twisting together in her lap.

I lean my head back against the headrest, studying her.

There is something genuinely intriguing about this woman. I can't quite put my finger on it, but she's different from the typical women I find myself with. For one, this is by far the longest amount of time I've ever spent with a woman after sleeping with her. Usually, my rule is simple and unyielding: keep it brief. My best friend Silas calls it my 'fuck and duck out' routine. It sounds cold, but it works for me. I don't have the time or the emotional bandwidth for a relationship. Between running a global company, constant travel, and late-night board meetings, my schedule is packed.

Ever since my last relationship crashed and burned a year ago—a three-year disaster that left me bitter and exhausted—I made a conscious decision to make work my sole priority. Women were meant for temporary distraction, nothing more. Silas always laughs when I leave a woman's bed before the sun even rises. He says I'm a machine, built for business and nothing else. And for the past twelve months, I believed him. I didn't want the complications of someone else's feelings, the constant demands on my time, or the inevitable disappointment when the illusion of romance faded.

Yet, here I am, sitting on a private jet with my temporary wife, and I don't feel the usual urge to escape.

As the plane climbs to cruising altitude, the steady hum of the engines fills the cabin. I pull out my tablet and begin reading through a contract, but my eyes keep drifting back to Maya. Eventually, her head starts to heavy drop, her eyes fluttering shut.

Before long, she leans sideways. Her head gently comes to rest against my shoulder. I stiffen for a fraction of a second, but then I relax. She shifts slightly, her hand reaching out to wrap around my bicep as if seeking comfort in her sleep.

I hold my breath, suddenly acutely aware of her warmth. The sweet, subtle scent of her shampoo drifts up to me. It's a clean, floral fragrance that is rapidly becoming my favorite smell. I look down at her face. Without the makeup from the night before, she looks incredibly soft, almost vulnerable.

A loose strand of brown hair falls across her cheek. Without thinking, I raise my hand and gently brush it behind her ear, my fingers lingering on her warm skin for a brief second. She is stunning. Truly stunning.

I lean my head back and close my eyes, letting the quiet warmth of her body lull me into a light sleep.

Hours pass in a blur of soft engine noise and quiet breathing.

Suddenly, the heavy thud of the landing gear extending rouses me. The plane's wheels touch down on the London tarmac with a sharp jolt.

Maya jolts awake, her olive eyes snapping open. She blinks, looking around in confusion for a split second before she realizes where she is. Her head was resting on my shoulder, and her arm is still securely wrapped around my bicep.

She pulls back instantly, sitting up straight. Her face turns a bright, deep red. She runs her fingers through her hair, trying to smooth down the wild strands, and clears her throat, looking everywhere but at me.

“How long have I been sleeping?” she asks, her voice slightly raspy from sleep.

“A couple of hours,” I reply, my voice smooth.

She frowns slightly, leaning over to pull her shoes back on. “I'm so sorry. You should have woken me.”

I smile, shaking my head as I watch her straighten her black tee. “Don't sweat it. I was asleep too. We must have been more tired than we realized.”

She nods, rubbing the back of her neck as she stands up and walks toward the exit. “Tell me about it. It's been a wild weekend. Oh god, I have work in the morning.”

I follow her down the steps of the plane and onto the wet tarmac. The cool, damp air of a London evening hits us immediately. Waiting at the bottom of the steps is my black town car.

Maya stops suddenly, looking at the car, then turning back to me. “Did we use this car last night?”

I nod. “We left the club in this last night.”

“Huh. I remember the car, but nothing else,” she murmurs, her brow furrowing. She looks at the driver, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Actually, I think I remember him, too.”

My driver, Warren, steps forward. He offers a polite, professional smile and nods curtly to her as he opens the passenger door.

“Evening, Miss,” Warren says warmly.

Maya gives him a slightly skeptical look, but she climbs into the back of the car anyway. I slide in next to her, and the door clicks shut behind us, sealing us in the quiet luxury of the vehicle.

The drive through London is quiet. The city is alive with the hum of evening traffic, the streetlights reflecting off the wet pavement. Maya looks out the window, her profile silhouetted against the glass.

About forty-five minutes later, the car pulls up to the curb in front of a modest apartment building.

“Well, this is me,” Maya says, looking up at the building before turning to face me. She shifts in her seat, her expression a mix of relief and lingering awkwardness. “Thank you for getting me back home. And for... everything.”

“Don't mention it,” I say. I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out my sleek, matte-black business card. It is made of heavy metal, engraved with my name and title. I hand it to her. “Here, this is my card. My lawyer is already drawing up the divorce papers. We'll meet up in a few days, and you can sign them. Sound good?”

Maya takes the card, holding it up to the dim light of the car's interior. Her thumb brushes against the cold metal edge. Her brow furrows as she reads the name printed on it.

“Declan?” she asks, looking up at me in confusion. “I thought your name was Vance?”

“It is,” I reply with a faint smile. “I prefer to be called Vance outside of work.”

She nods, seemingly satisfied with the explanation, and slides the card into the pocket of her jeans.

A quiet chuckle threatens to escape my throat. She genuinely has no clue who I am. She didn't look at the company name on the card, and she obviously doesn't recognize my face from the financial news. In my world, everyone knows who Declan Vance is before they even shake my hand. It is incredibly refreshing to meet someone who looks at me and just sees a guy she made a mistake with in Vegas.

“Well, I guess I'll wait to hear from you,” she says, her tone quiet. “I will text you my number.”

“I'll look out for it,” I reply.

We sit there for a moment, the silence between us stretching out. It's that awkward, uncertain beat at the end of an encounter. Do we shake hands? Do we hug? We are technically husband and wife, yet we are virtually strangers.

She turns to open the car door, but stops. She looks down at her left hand, then reaches over and slowly slides the heavy diamond ring off her finger. She turns and places it in my palm.

Our fingers brush, and a brief spark of electricity seems to pass between us. She looks up, her green eyes searching my face, her brow furrowing again.

“We've never met before, right?” she asks, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Before this weekend, I mean.”

I look at her, letting my gaze linger on her lips before rising back to her eyes. I let a slow, confident smirk play on my lips.

“I don't think so,” I say, my voice low and teasing. “I would have definitely remembered meeting you.”

She blinks, surprised by my words. Almost instantly, a deep, beautiful pink flush spreads across her cheeks.

I find myself staring at her, my chest tightening. God, she is incredibly alluring when she blushes. It's easily one of the sexiest things I've ever seen.

Maya clears her throat quickly, trying to shake off the effect of my words. She nods, backing out of the car. “Thanks again.”

“Thank you for an eventful weekend, Maya Vane,” I say.

She nods once, murmurs a quick goodbye, and steps out onto the pavement.

As she turns to walk toward the entrance of her building, I can't resist the urge to tease her one last time. I lean toward the open door.

“I guess I'll be seeing you in a few days... wifey.”

Maya freezes mid-step. She whirls around, her green eyes flashing with annoyance as she glares at me.

“Don't call me that,” she snaps, her tone sharp but lacking any real venom.

I let out a soft chuckle as she turns back around and quickly disappears into the safety of her apartment building.

I lean back into the leather seat, the door closing with a soft, solid thud.

“Let's go, Warren,” I say, my eyes still fixed on the glass doors of her building.

The car pulls away from the curb, merging back into the London traffic.

I look down at the heavy diamond ring resting in my palm, the light catching the facets of the stone.

What an eventful forty-two hours.