The Stolen Sapphire: His Fake Girlfriend

"Just wait," she whispered to the empty seat beside her. "I'm coming for it."

The promise, a venomous vow made to the ghost of her past, was the only thing keeping her upright. The flight attendant offered a glass of champagne, the bubbles fizzing near the rim like a hollow toast to a better life. Belle Stanton ignored it. She asked for milk.

It was a foolish choice, something a child would ask for, but she craved the bland comfort, a temporary coating for the acid eating away at her stomach lining. She knew dairy was a risk, but at this point, self-destruction felt like a form of control. Her stomach felt like it was trying to digest itself. It had been doing that since she left Paris, a slow, burning churn that made her skin clammy and her hands shake. She pulled her leather jacket tighter around her chest, trying to disappear into the oversized seat of the first-class cabin. She didn't look like she belonged here. Her boots were scuffed, her jeans were ripped at the knees not by design but by wear, and her hair was a dark, tangled mess that screamed "stay away."

She glanced to her left.

The man in 2A was a statue carved out of money and indifference. He wore a suit that probably cost more than her entire existence over the last three years. He was reading a document, his pen hovering over the paper with precise, calculated intent. He hadn't looked at her once since she boarded. To him, she was just background noise, static on a radio channel he didn't listen to.

Good. She preferred invisible.

Belle took the glass of warm milk from the attendant with a muttered thanks. Her fingers trembled against the glass. She needed to calm down. She needed to stop thinking about why she was going back to New York.

To distract herself, she grabbed the copy of Tatler from the side pocket. It was trashy, glossy escapism. Just what she needed. She flipped the pages aggressively, the sharp sound of paper tearing through the quiet hum of the cabin.

Page 12.

Her hand froze.

The headline was bold, cheerful, and nauseating: Aryana Stanton's Fairytale Engagement.

Belle stared at the photo. Aryana, her half-sister, was smiling that perfect, practiced smile that fooled everyone. She was clinging to Carlton Bryan's arm like a delicate vine. But Belle wasn't looking at Aryana's face. She wasn't looking at the ring.

She was looking at Aryana's neck.

A sapphire pendant hung there. A deep, midnight blue stone surrounded by a halo of diamonds.

The air left Belle's lungs in a rush. It was a physical blow. That necklace wasn't Aryana's. It wasn't Ewart Stanton's to give. It was hers. It was the last thing her mother had worn before the cancer took her, the only piece of jewelry Belle had specifically asked to be kept in the vault until she turned twenty-five.

"Thief," Belle whispered. The word tasted like bile.

A wave of heat rolled up her spine. Her vision blurred at the edges. How dare she? How dare that interloper wear her mother's legacy while playing house with the Manhattan elite?

The plane jolted. The seatbelt sign pinged overhead.

Turbulence.

The sudden drop made Belle's stomach lurch violently. Her grip on the milk glass slipped as the jolt threw her torso slightly forward, her body a puppet to the plane's sudden movement. Her hand spasmed under the weight of her rage and the motion of the plane.

The white liquid arced through the air.

It defied gravity for a split second before splashing down. Not on the floor. Not on her own lap.

It landed squarely on the crotch of the pristine grey trousers of the man in 2A.

Time stopped.

The man didn't jump. He didn't yell. He just stopped writing. The ink from his pen bled a tiny black dot onto his document, the only sign that his world had been disturbed.

Belle stared in horror. The white stain was spreading rapidly across the expensive fabric, soaking into the most awkward, intimate place possible.

"Oh my god," she gasped.

Panic, cold and sharp, replaced her anger. She grabbed a handful of cocktail napkins from the tray table. She didn't think. She just reacted.

"I am so sorry, I-"

She lunged across the armrest, jamming the napkins onto his lap to soak up the mess.

The muscle in his thigh turned to stone under her hand.

Before she could wipe a second time, a hand clamped around her wrist. His grip was iron. It wasn't painful, but it was absolute. He stopped her hand inches from his zipper.

Belle looked up.

She found herself staring into eyes the color of a winter storm. They were cold, intelligent, and currently filled with a profound, terrifying annoyance.

"Stop," he said. His voice was low, a deep rumble that vibrated through the armrest. "Woman."

He didn't let go of her wrist. He held it there, suspended, forcing her to realize exactly where her hand was and how incredibly inappropriate this situation had become.

"I was just trying to help," Belle stammered, her face burning.

"You've done enough," he said. He released her wrist with a flick, as if touching her was unsanitary.

The head flight attendant materialized in the aisle, her face a mask of professional horror. "Mr. Stephens! Oh, I am so sorry. Let me get you a hot towel."

Mr. Stephens. The name meant nothing to Belle, but the way the crew reacted told her he was someone who could ruin careers with a phone call.

He stood up, using his suit jacket to shield the stain from the rest of the cabin. He looked down at Belle one last time. His gaze swept over her messy hair, her pale face, the leather jacket. He didn't see a Stanton heiress. He saw a disaster.

"Clean this up," he ordered the air, not looking at her again, and walked toward the lavatory with a stiff, dignified stride.

Belle sank back into her seat. She looked down at the magazine on her lap. The milk had splattered onto Aryana's face in the photo, turning the engagement picture into a soggy mess.

Good.

But the shame was burning a hole in her chest. She closed her eyes, fighting the nausea that was rising again. She had been back in New York's orbit for less than six hours and she had already assaulted a VIP and humiliated herself.

She touched the empty space at the base of her throat where the sapphire should have been.