Page 10 of Dial F for Finance

Then I open the attached PDF, where I now notice the flight number doesn’t begin with a major carrier code, but with a jarring string of letters—CFI, which is either an obscure regional airline or, more likely, a vanity abbreviation for Cruz Financial International, aka the company Dominic uses to found, fund, and occasionally terrorize the mergers and acquisitions world for his own personal enjoyment.

A private jet.

His private jet.

Of course.

I don’t even have the energy to muster outrage, though outrage is normally my resting pulse. I just check my reflection in the blacked-out glass and accept my fate. Thirteen hours in a close-quarters cabin with Dominic Cruz. Crap. This is even worse than when I thought we’d be in business class together. At least then I could have put the privacy screen up and ignored him. Now I have to sit in the same space and be grateful for his hospitality.

And I don’t want to be grateful.

I don’t even want to look at him right now.

The car follows a winding access road toward a squat, floodlit building at the far west edge of O’Hare. Out on the tarmac, a gleaming white Gulfstream G700 sits parked, its nose pointed at the city skyline. A portable staircase hugs the fuselage. Ground crew in neon vests move about. On the tail, in letters visible from orbit, is CRUZ FINANCIAL.

God save me from men with branding fetishes.

The driver pulls up to a gate that opens without him even needing to lower his window. Then we roll across the tarmac and stop at the foot of the stairs. A man in a dark suit appears at my door.

“Ms. Pemberton.” He has a pleasant, slightly embalmed expression, and I wonder if his entire career has been the ten feet between the car and the staircase. “May I take your bag?”

I hand him my carry-on. I packed for ten days in the hours between Bennett’s text and now, which means I have squashed in approximately twelve outfits, a fistful of cotton panties and bras, no fewer than three cardigans, and one lingerie set I bought years ago and have never worn because the lace is the wrong shade of red for any real-world application. I mention this only because I’m noting, dryly, that the version of me who packed was not the version of me currently boarding. The version of me who packed was convinced there was a possibility she might spend a portion of this trip in a position to wear seductive underwear.

I’d formed a narrative in my head about how this trip would go. Me, striding onto the jet in heels and resolve, owning the air and making Dominic sweat for the privilege of sharing it. I was going to be bold. Set the terms. Be the person in control.

Now, with my shoes clicking up the metal stairs and the wind blowing my hair into my mouth, I revise that assessment.

Last night, Dominic wanted me. I know that much. Then he asked me to wait until I was sober—like a decent, considerate human being—and I thanked him by looking him in the eye and telling him I regretted the entire thing.

So, yes. The odds of Dominic Cruz wanting to see me now—let alone undress me—have deteriorated sharply. I could show up in nothing but an expense report and he’d probably hand me a cardigan and ask if I’d like a decaf.

Because last night, I blew it.

Not because I don’t want him. That would be convenient.

I do.

God help me.

I pause before the doorway, just long enough for a self-directed pep talk.

You are not going to wilt. You are not going to stammer. And you are not, under any circumstances, going to apologize at the top of the stairs.

Apologies create conversations. Conversations create questions. Questions create admissions no woman should be forced to make while trapped in a pressurized cabin for thirteen hours.

If an apology becomes strategically unavoidable, I will deliver it on Japanese soil, where escape routes exist.

Until then, this is for Bennett. There is a contract at stake. A deal to save. Any collateral emotional damage from last night will be compartmentalized, labeled, and set aside for later analysis.

I press my lips together and finish the climb. At the top, the door arcs open with gentle, hydraulic inevitability.

“Ms. Pemberton, welcome aboard.” I’m greeted by a woman in a navy uniform. Her smile is so polite and focused it could have been laser-cut. “We’ll be departing in approximately twelve minutes. Please, let me know if I can get you anything.”

“Thank you.” I try to modulate my voice for the setting—expensive, cavernous, and exactly the kind of hollow that makes my life feel unreal. I set my laptop bag on the seat as discreetly as possible and try to look like I belong.

Dominic isn’t here yet.

I survey the main cabin. There’s a single row of four giant armchairs, upholstered in the kind of leather that makes you feel poor just looking at it. Beyond that, a credenza loaded with glassware and a row of minimalist shelves, stocked with a whole host of Cruz-branded snacks—even the little baggies of almonds have the Cruz Financial logo, a testament to either efficiency or megalomania.