Chapter 6 Confined Space
The drive from my apartment to Midway was reckless, silent, and fast. Rhys barely spoke, his focus fixed on maintaining the impossible thirty-minute deadline. We bypassed all standard airport security protocols, pulling up directly to a sleek, matte black Gulfstream jet waiting on the tarmac, its engines already whining.
The crew was minimal: two pilots and one flight attendant, all models of polite, silent efficiency. As soon as we crossed the threshold and the heavy door hissed shut, the plane began taxiing.
I sank onto a cream-colored leather sofa in the main cabin, feeling the physical drop from the adrenaline high. The cabin was overwhelmingly silent, a vault of obscene wealth. Every surface was polished, flawless, and the deep pile carpet swallowed the sound of my ragged breathing. This jet wasn't transportation; it was a pressurized, controlled environment, a stark contrast to the destruction I’d left behind. The scent of new leather, expensive wood paneling, and the lingering trace of jet fuel was overwhelming. Rhys, meanwhile, ignored the luxury. He handed my small, black suitcase to the flight attendant with a nod and immediately moved to a small communication console.
"I am out of contact for the next eight hours," Rhys said into the sat phone, his voice a low, gravelly command. "You will forward any urgent correspondence to Ellie's encrypted line. No distractions."
He disconnected, finally turning his attention back to me. The jacket was still clinging to me—my only defense against the chill of the cabin and the vast emptiness of the choice I had just made. The heavy leather felt like a lead blanket, anchoring me to the reality of the contract. It smelled entirely of him—a scent of engine oil, adrenaline, and expensive, sharp cologne—a dangerous, confusing comfort.
"Destination is Nice, France," Rhys stated, pulling a small silver briefcase from a hidden cabinet. "We have eight hours of uninterrupted flight time. That is eight hours for you to brief me on the nature of this attack, and eight hours for you to begin the initial analysis of the data my team has collected."
He placed the briefcase on the table between us. It was utterly out of place next to the remnants of Alex's chaos still clinging to my senses.
"Get comfortable. Get rational. And get to work."
I pulled the laptop out of my bag, but my focus kept fracturing. I couldn't stop thinking about the photo, the wine stain, and the raw, vulnerable look on Rhys's face when he admitted he needed me. I tried to force my brain back into academic mode, cataloging the emotional state as Dissociation due to acute stress, but the image of his thumb on my cheek kept looping. I had traded one prison—Alex's dull predictability—for another, far more dangerous one: Rhys's absolute, focused control.
"Before we start," I began, my voice dry. "I need one assurance. Did you use Dale’s imprisonment status as part of the NDA?"
Rhys paused, his fingers resting on the clasp of the silver briefcase. The question hung heavy with history.
"The NDA covers all shared, private history and vulnerability," Rhys confirmed, his eyes level and direct. "Your family's secrets are, by default, my secrets now. Your father remains contained, Ellie. I checked the status before I boarded the flight. He is not a threat. We are safe."
It was a cold answer, but it was honest. It was the absolute, clinical security I had needed since I was twelve.
"He's no father of mine," I muttered, shaking off the residual fear. "Then let's talk about symbolic warfare. Give me the data."
Rhys opened the briefcase. Inside, it wasn't files or contracts, but a thick, encrypted tablet and a sleek black burner phone.
"This tablet contains every piece of manufactured data, every press release, and every deepfake the attacker has used in the last six weeks. It's a digital avalanche," Rhys explained, his expression grave. "The phone is encrypted and will be your only point of contact with my team. You are Ellie Vance's personal media analyst for the season. Nothing more."
He slid the equipment across the table. "I need you to find the pattern. Find the signature. The symbolic intent behind the chaos. The attacker isn't just trying to hurt my endorsements; they're trying to fundamentally change the meaning of the Rhys Vance brand."
I picked up the tablet, the cold metal a welcome anchor for my spinning mind. This was the work. This was the escape.
"And what do you do for the next eight hours, Mr. Vance?" I asked, looking up at him over the screen. "Monitor me?"
Rhys leaned back into his seat, closing his eyes for a moment—a gesture of pure, unadulterated exhaustion that seemed entirely out of place on the man I knew. His face, usually so sharp and arrogant, looked sunken beneath the shadows. He looked not like a CEO, but like a man who hadn't stood down from a crisis in days.
"I need to sleep," he confessed, the word low and rough. "I haven't slept properly in four days since this attack intensified. I haven't slept at all since I landed in Chicago."
He paused, then slowly opened his eyes, fixing them on me with that intense, focused attention that always felt like a physical weight.
"And you," he finished, his voice a low command. "You will eat the meal that arrives here, even if you only pick at it. You will not engage the staff in conversation. And if you attempt to analyze the contents of the NDA before you finish your preliminary data analysis, I will know. I expect preliminary results before the end of hour five."
I gripped the tablet, the tension between us thick enough to cut. We were hurtling across the country, locked in a ridiculously luxurious prison.
"Understood," I said, meeting his gaze. "But one more thing. You said you needed me. Be precise. Why me, Rhys? Why not a team of MIT specialists?"
His mouth curled into the faintest, almost predatory smile. "MIT can identify the code. They can tell me what happened. You, Ellie, will tell me why. You will find the author's voice in the noise."
He gestured to the vast, empty cabin. "The silence is yours. Go."
I forced my attention back to the tablet, the heavy leather of his jacket still clinging to me, the ultimate symbol of the contract I had just signed: exchanging emotional chaos for professional control.