1. Mess? What Mess? I’m In First Class Now

I was one inappropriate comment away from committing a felony.

Hours ago, I’d caught my boyfriend – ex-boyfriend now – making out with his gym buddy in the coat closet at his brother's wedding. His brother's wedding. Do you know how humiliating it is to hear Bruno Mars’ Marry You playing faintly in the background while your boyfriend passionately explores another man's dental records?

Yeah. It's soul-crushing.

But instead of creating a scene or setting fire to his tuxedo, I did what any dignified woman would do. I booked the earliest flight out of that city and vowed to emotionally process this betrayal at 30,000 feet in the air with stale pretzels and overpriced airplane Wi-Fi.

Which brings me to Gate 17A, with my overstuffed carry-on, puffy eyes, and the fiery determination of a woman scorned. I had two goals: get on this plane and cry silently into my tray table.

But apparently, peace wasn’t on today’s itinerary.

“Ma’am, can you please control your emotional support horse?” The gate agent’s voice cut through the crowd.

I gawked in disbelief.

A miniature horse wearing a perfectly tailored emotional support vest was queuing to board the plane. Its handler, a middle-aged woman with an air of quiet superiority, was fussing over the tiny equine like it was royalty. The horse stood there, completely unbothered, with an expression that screamed, I am better than you.

As if that wasn’t enough,  The Drunkard appeared. A man with the distinct aroma of vodka, regret, and a cologne that I’m pretty sure was just windshield wiper fluid.

I rubbed my temples. I was a recently promoted detective with the Northvale Police Department. A career milestone that took years of hard work, late nights, and caffeine abuse. I’d stared down armed suspects, negotiated with unhinged criminals, and once wrestled a guy twice my size to the ground. But apparently, this Gate 17A, emotional support livestock, and the suffocating scent of vodka, was my breaking point.

“Hey, sweetheart,” The Drunkard slurred, leaning way too close for comfort. “You flyin’ solo? Wanna join the mile-high club?”

I stared at him. Blinked. Took a deep breath and decided I wasn’t going to prison for aggravated assault today. How ironic.

“Sir, if you continue speaking to me, I will personally eject you from this terminal using that horse.”

Unfortunately, Drunkard McVodkaMist didn’t seem to understand boundaries or threats involving livestock. He stumbled forward, threw my carry-on, and sent my neck pillow flying.

That’s when I snapped.

“Excuse me!” I barked, stepping directly into his path. “Did you just throw my stuff? Are you seriously trying to fall on me right now? Sir, I am hanging onto my last thread of sanity, and if you break it, I swear–”

I stopped myself before mentioning how many hours I’d spent on the shooting range last month or how easily I could cuff him with a zip tie from my carry-on. My brand new badge might be back home in my locker at the NPD, but old habits die hard.

“Whoa, relax, sweetheart,” he said, raising his hands and swaying like a palm tree in a hurricane. “It was an accident.”

“An accident? Buddy, I’ve seen toddlers with better balance than you, and they’re still learning how knees work!”

At this point, people around us were starting to stare. A gate agent was slowly approaching, and the horse lady was openly recording the scene with her phone.

Drunkard McVodkaMist chuckled, taking another half-step forward. “You’re kinda cute when you’re angry, you know that?”

Oh no.

I felt my eyes twitch. I felt my fists curl. And somewhere deep in the caverns of my rage-addled brain, I heard the faintest ding!

Like a boxing bell starting Round One.

“Cute? Cute?! I look like a sleep-deprived raccoon who just found out her entire trash stash got repossessed! Do I look like I am in the mood for compliments?”

“Sir!” A security guard finally arrived, placing a firm hand on Drunkard's shoulder. “You need to come with me.”

Drunkard McVodkaMist stumbled back, glaring at the guard. “She started it! She threatened me with a horse!”

“That was an empty threat,” I said, crossing my arms. “Mostly.”

The security guard turned to me with a mix of concern and barely concealed amusement. “Miss, are you okay?”

“No. But I will be once I’m 30,000 feet away from him.”

The flight attendant appeared at my side, wearing the forced smile of someone who had seen too many mid-terminal meltdowns. “Ma’am, would you… like to board early? In first class? On us?”

Apparently, rage earns you upgrades.

I accepted with the grace of a caffeinated raccoon and marched onto the plane like a woman who had absolutely nothing to lose.

 And that’s how I ended up in seat 4A, sipping complimentary champagne and trying to untangle my earbuds when he walked in.

 Mr. Walking Ad.

Tall, effortlessly put-together in his charcoal grey sweater that hugged his shoulders and fell over his torso. His dark hair was an intentional mess. Longer strands tousled on top, while the buzzed underside stayed sharp and clean. It was the kind of perfectly styled hair that made it clear he had his life together.

His sharp jawline could cut glass, but it was his piercing blue eyes that pinned me in place. Intense, knowing, and edged with danger.

I could already feel the weight of his presence as he strolled down the aisle, the subtle thud of expensive leather shoes on the plane’s carpet almost mocking me.

“Excuse me, Miss…” he glanced down at the panda-print travel neck-pillow in his hands, “…this belongs to you, doesn’t it?”

I froze mid-sip, narrowing my eyes at him. How did he have that? My last memory of the neck-pillow was it being launched into the stratosphere by Drunkard McVodkaMist.

“Where did you get that?” I asked slowly.

He smirked again, that sharp curve of his mouth infuriating me. As if he found this all amusing. Of course he did. Everything about him screamed privilege. He was the kind of guy who probably had someone fetch his coffee for him, yet here he was, casually strolling into my space like it was a hotel suite.

“Found it abandoned near the gate,” he said, his voice smooth as velvet. “Thought I’d return it to its rightful owner before you decided to weaponize the champagne flute.”

Shit. Rightful owner. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to throw the pillow at him or throw myself off the plane.

There it was, the subtle but painfully obvious jab, like he was trying to gently remind me that I didn’t belong here. First class. Me. The girl who had definitely never in her life been upgraded on an airline that wasn’t the budget version of a flying bus.

I could almost hear the judgment in his voice. Found it abandoned near the gate. As if I, little Miss “I-Got-Lucky-With-This-Upgrade,” had dropped my neck pillow like a rich person who didn’t even know how to keep track of their travel essentials.

Maybe he was that type of person. The kind who walked into first class like it was his personal throne room and judged anyone who didn’t look like they’d been born with a golden boarding pass in their pocket.

Or maybe he had seen me earlier, trying to pretend I wasn’t too surprised when I was handed the first-class ticket and a real glass of overpriced champagne. I probably looked like a raccoon in the middle of a caffeine binge, all wide-eyed and desperate for a seat.

But no. He had to bring the neck pillow to my seat, the one thing I probably would’ve thrown at him in a fit of sudden rage. Because nothing says ‘I belong here’ like a panda-print neck pillow.

“Thank you,” I muttered under my breath as I grabbed the pillow. Maybe I’d just start wearing it as a hat. If I was going to be judged, I might as well own it.

He smiled that infuriatingly perfect smile, like he was so pleased with himself for doing something ‘nice,’ when all I really wanted to do was pretend I was invisible until the flight ended.

But I managed to muster a smile, too. A polite one, because that was what grown-ups did. We smiled through the glaring irony of life and our accidental mistakes. I had to give myself credit. The actual battle was between my ego and my desire to throw my champagne flute at his seemingly soft sweater.

Oh, he could have easily been my number two victim even before the plane took off.

And then, he slipped into the seat beside me. I would just pretend he didn’t exist.

“Rough day?” he asked.

I turned to him. Now I have to be polite too.

“You bet. If this plane crashes, I’m fighting God Himself.”

His lips parted, then curled into a laugh. Actual, genuine laughter, not the smug chuckle I had expected. It was warm, unexpected, and, for a split second, I almost didn’t want to strangle him.

Almost.

And for a brief moment, despite my overwhelming urge to throttle him, I couldn’t help but feel... a flicker of something other than annoyance. Maybe this flight wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“I’m Elian,” he said, his tone so casual it made me want to scream. “And you are...?”

Why didn’t he just shut up?

I stared at his outstretched hand and that was when I caught something dark on his hand.

A coiled creature stares back, jet-black on his fair skin.

It was a snake, scrawled in black ink on the back of his hand. A forked tongue licked up his index finger, flicking under the first class’ overhead light. A tail twisted up his wrist and slithered under the sleeve of his sweater.

He caught me staring, and I shivered under his piercing blue eyes.