Chapter 50 The Return Flight
Valentina
It had been a week since the balcony.
A week of late-night performances, shared glances too convincing to be fake, and whispered threats passed like love notes between sips of wine. A week of pretending we were soulmates under silk sheets and daylight scrutiny.
We didn’t go to Greece.
Matteo decided it was safer to stay close to the enemy. To keep our knives hidden but within reach. And so, we lingered at the villa, spinning a fantasy so flawlessly executed that even I started to forget where the lines blurred.
Now we were heading home—with company.
The private jet was sleek and cold, all chrome edges and luxury leather. Matteo’s hand was wrapped around my waist, anchoring me to his lap like it was the only place I’d ever belonged. I wasn’t squirming this time. I wasn’t shy or uncertain. I’d earned my place—and I wore it like a crown.
Maria was back.
Of course she was. No new attendant could be found in time—at least, that’s what they claimed.
But this time? I wasn’t caught off guard.
Maria approached with champagne flutes, her blouse undone just enough to say “I remember how he used to look at me.” But Matteo didn’t. He barely even glanced in her direction.
“I’m surprised you’re still working here,” I said, plucking a glass from her tray. “Thought they’d promote you to first class in someone else’s lap by now.”
Her smile tightened, but she kept it plastered on.
Matteo ran a slow circle over my inner thigh. “You good, baby?”
“Mmm,” I purred, tilting my head. “Better than good.”
Luca, sitting across the aisle, couldn’t stop staring at Maria. And Maria—well, she noticed. She started performing too, suddenly more interested in his side of the cabin. Touches on his shoulder. Extra napkins. Lower bends to adjust the table settings.
Arianna saw everything.
Her fake ring sparkled under the cabin lights, but it might as well have been a shackle. Her nostrils flared, lips pressed in a line so tight it looked painful. Not a single word passed between them, but the silence was venomous.
“You know,” I whispered in Matteo’s ear, brushing my lips just beneath it, “if she kills him mid-flight, I’m siding with her.”
He smirked. “Don’t tempt me. I’ve been thinking about pushing him out the emergency exit since takeoff.”
Arianna stiffened—either from the tension or the way Maria was now practically purring over Luca’s whiskey. Luca, idiot that he was, didn’t even hide it. His gaze stayed locked on her ass like it owed him money.
All of it was being recorded.
Matteo’s private jet had more hidden surveillance than a CIA safe house. Every glance, every insult wrapped in sugar, every jealous twitch—they were all being documented. Fuel. Proof. Leverage.
And this time, we weren’t collecting evidence.
We were manufacturing it.
I leaned closer, smiling for the invisible cameras. “You know they’re going to hang themselves with this.”
“I’m just handing them the rope,” Matteo replied, his voice low. “Let them fuck around. They’re going to find out.”
He raised his glass. I did the same.
“To loyalty,” he said.
“To exposure,” I answered.
Arianna turned her head just in time to miss our kiss, but not before catching the way Matteo’s hand slid higher up my leg.
Maria noticed, too. Her smile faltered. For once, she wasn’t the one holding the power.
The jet belonged to Matteo.
But the performance?
That was mine.
And I was ready to take center stage.
Later I saw exactly what kind of snake Luca really was.
It started with him “going to the bathroom.”
Five minutes passed. Ten.
Matteo lifted his glass and frowned at the empty bottom. “Where the fuck is Maria?”
“Still not back?” I asked innocently.
He shook his head, annoyed. “She’s been gone as long as Luca. Probably digging around for a wine that doesn’t exist.”
“I’ll go check,” I offered with a sweet smile. “Wife of the year, right?”
Matteo smirked and slapped my ass as I stood. “Don’t forget the ice.”
I rolled my eyes and headed toward the back galley.
What I found stopped me cold.
Maria. On her knees.
Luca. Hands tangled in her hair, head tipped back, mouth parted in a silent moan.
His pants open just at the zipper, and she was sucking him like her life depended on it.
I didn’t make a sound—but Luca saw me.
Our eyes locked. And for a beat, neither of us moved.
Then I turned to walk away.
I didn’t get far.
His hand snapped out, grabbing my arm hard enough to bite into the skin. I gasped, more out of rage than pain.
He yanked Maria off him with his other hand and shoved himself back into his pants so fast the zipper probably caught skin.
“Say a word,” he hissed, “and I’ll fucking kill you.”
I smiled sweetly.
“Oh, don’t worry,” I purred. “I don’t need to.”
Then I yanked my arm free and walked back down the aisle, every step steady and composed even though my blood was lava.
Matteo’s eyes lifted when I returned, and his jaw clenched the moment I slid onto his lap.
“Is Maria making me another drink?” he asked, voice low.
“She’s coming,” I said lightly.
His fingers brushed my arm.
I flinched—too slow.
He caught the red marks immediately.
His hand wrapped around my wrist, angling it for a better look. “What is this?”
“Nothing,” I said with a shrug.
Just then, Luca strolled out like he hadn’t just been face-deep in infidelity. Arianna glanced up from her tablet and gave him a look that could’ve cracked mirrors, but he played it cool—fixing his cufflink, adjusting his collar.
Matteo didn’t say another word.
But his hand dropped from my wrist and curled into a fist on my thigh.
It stayed there the rest of the flight.
When the wheels hit the runway, I stood first—still in Matteo’s lap, still playing my part.
He gripped my hips possessively as I leaned forward to grab my bag, letting his mouth graze my spine through the silk of my blouse.
“You know I’m not letting you out of my sight when we land, right?” he murmured, low enough for only me to hear.
I smiled sweetly. “Terrified I’ll slip and accidentally poison Arianna’s mimosa?”
“No,” he said. “I’m terrified I’ll let you.”
The smirk I gave him was sharp enough to cut through cabin pressure.
Behind us, Luca stood and immediately reached for Maria’s arm—under the guise of needing “help with his jacket.” Arianna’s chair slammed backward as she shoved to her feet, and the temperature in the cabin dropped by ten degrees.
“You good, sweetheart?” Maria asked Luca, fluttering her lashes like a damn cartoon character.
“I’m great,” Luca said, voice dropping. “Best flight I’ve had in years.”
Maria’s cheeks flushed, but she didn’t rise to the bait.
She leaned down instead—right over Luca—and whispered something in his ear. I couldn’t hear it. But Arianna sure did.
The sound of glass shattering came a second later.
Her champagne flute. Gone.
“Oops,” she said, voice brittle. “I slipped.”
We exited first.
Matteo didn’t rush, and neither did I. Cameras might not have been watching out here, but the illusion had to remain seamless. We were the golden couple. Dangerous, devoted, disgusting in love.
At the bottom of the steps before Matteo could ask again, I said, “Review the tapes, you’ll get your answer.”