Chapter 208

Chapter 208
Clara: POV

The flight attendant sashayed down the aisle, her uniform altered to showcase more than the airline probably approved.

Her skirt barely covered essentials, and her blouse had suspiciously lost several buttons, revealing a strategic glimpse of cleavage.

I rolled my eyes. This wasn't my first rodeo with Andrei Wilson. Women constantly threw themselves at him—flight attendants, waitresses, and fans.

I'd grown accustomed to it during my years as his PR manager and now as his contract wife.

She stopped beside our seats, completely ignoring me while flashing Andrei a dazzling smile. "What would you like to eat, Mr. Wilson?" Her voice dropped to a sultry whisper that made my stomach turn.

Andrei didn't even glance up from his iPad. "Ask my wife," he replied coolly. "I'll have whatever she's having."

My jaw nearly hit the floor. What? Since when did Andrei—egotistical film producer extraordinaire—defer food choices to anyone, let alone me?

The flight attendant's smile faltered momentarily before she turned to me, her expression hardening. "And what would you like?" Her tone was clipped, professional, and entirely devoid of the warmth she'd shown Andrei.

"You should address her as Mrs. Wilson," Andrei cut in sharply, finally looking up from his screen. His blue eyes were ice cold as they fixed on the flight attendant.

The woman's cheeks flushed pink. "I'm sorry," she said quickly. "What would you like, Mrs. Wilson?"

I was too stunned by Andrei's intervention to formulate an immediate response.

I genuinely couldn't fathom why he would step forward to prevent the flight attendant's provocation toward me, ostensibly to save me from an awkward situation.

Did our one-night stand last night change anything?

"He'll have the high-protein, low-carb meal," I said, recovering my composure. "I'll take the sandwich and a glass of wine, please."

As the flight attendant hurried away, I glanced at Andrei, expecting some explanation, but he had already returned to his iPad, seemingly absorbed in whatever he was reading.

I reached for my book, trying to focus on anything other than the confusing man beside me.


"Lunch is ready, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson."

I closed my book and prepared to get up when Andrei set aside his iPad and stood, extending his hand to me.

I hesitated before placing my hand in his, assuming this was just part of our public performance.

He led me to the dining table set up in the spacious cabin, then—to my surprise—pulled out my chair for me.

I sat down cautiously, watching as he took his seat beside me.

The attendant placed our meals before us with practiced efficiency. As soon as she left, Andrei began transferring food from his plate to mine.

"I just want my sandwich," I protested.

"Eat," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You're already underweight. You need to eat more from now on."

Before I could respond, he scooped up a forkful of his meal and held it to my lips.

I stared at him in shock. Who was this man and what had he done with Andrei Wilson?

"Did you hit your head or something?" I finally asked when he lowered the fork.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Just eat, Clara."

I reluctantly accepted the offered food, my cheeks burning with confusion. One night together and suddenly he was feeding me? This made no sense.



After lunch, I started to rise from my seat, intending to return to my corner with my book.

"Where are you going?" Andrei caught my wrist, his fingers warm against my skin.

"Back to my seat," I said, pointing to my usual spot.

"Sit with me," he said, guiding me toward his spacious area. "Here."

"I need to get my book," I pointed out.

"The book will be brought to you," he replied confidently. "You sit here."

Moments later, a flight attendant appeared with my book. I settled awkwardly beside Andrei, hyper-aware of how close he sat.

Our thighs touched, and his presence felt strangely intimate—protective, almost.

I tried to focus on reading, but my mind kept wandering. The warmth of his body next to mine, the lingering scent of his cologne, the memory of his hands on my skin the night before...

I must have dozed off because the next thing I knew, gentle fingers were stroking my arm, then my cheek.

"The plane is landing, honey. Wake up," Andrei's voice, unusually tender, pulled me from sleep.

I blinked in confusion, registering the blanket draped over me that hadn't been there before.

Andrei was already gathering my belongings, my book safely tucked into my bag.

"I can get that," I said, reaching for my things.

"I've got it." He took my hand instead, his grip firm but gentle as he helped me stand.

As we walked toward the exit, his hand remained clasped around mine.

When we reached the stairs leading to the tarmac, he guided me carefully, his hand at the small of my back providing steady support.

The evening air in Guadalajara hit me with an unexpected chill, and I shivered involuntarily.

Without hesitation, Andrei removed his jacket and draped it over my shoulders. The fabric still held his warmth, enveloping me in his scent.

Outside the airport, a swarm of paparazzi waited, cameras flashing the moment they spotted us.

Andrei's arm immediately circled my waist, pulling me against his side as he created a barrier between me and the shouting photographers.

"Mr. Wilson! Mrs. Wilson! Over here!"
"Andrei! How was Mexico City?"
"Andrei, your relationship with Clara appears to be quite splendid indeed!"

He navigated us through the crowd with practiced ease, his body shielding mine from the worst of the jostling until we reached the waiting car.

As I was about to get in, Andrei stopped me, his hands gentle on my shoulders as he turned me to face him.

"I need to go straight to the filming location," he explained. "I'll try to get home as soon as I can, but don't stay up waiting for me, okay?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice. There was something in his eyes I couldn't decipher—something intense and focused that made my pulse quicken.

Then he leaned down and kissed me.

This didn't seem like usual public display—the quick, camera-ready kisses we shared for appearances. This was deeper, longer, more intimate than anything we'd done in public before. When he finally pulled away, I felt breathless and disoriented.

I watched him walk to his own car, my fingers unconsciously touching my lips where his had been. As my driver pulled away from the curb, I tried to make sense of Andrei's behavior.

One night of passion had somehow changed everything, and I had no idea what to expect next.