Beneath Steel Skies

Chapter Five

The private jet hummed steadily, slicing through the clouds like it had somewhere more important to be than the rest of the world.

Veronica sat by the window, legs crossed, tablet in hand. Her charcoal-gray suit was unwrinkled despite the early flight, and her posture was, as always, impeccable. But beneath the surface of her cool composure, she was calculating.

Every angle. Every outcome. Every word she would say at the investor summit in Chicago.

Across from her, Ethan buckled himself in and exhaled softly. He’d never been on a private jet before. He didn’t gawk, he was too composed for that but his gaze lingered just a second too long on the polished walnut finishes and stitched Italian leather.

Veronica noticed.

“You can relax,” she said without looking up from her tablet.

“I am relaxed,” Ethan replied, adjusting his cuff.

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re sitting like the seat might eject you.”

He smirked. “Maybe I just know not to get too comfortable when I’m flying this close to power.”

Veronica met his gaze then. Something flickered in her eyes not irritation, but amusement. He was never afraid to match her, toe to toe. Most men weren’t brave or secure enough to do that.

“You’ll do fine at the summit,” she said. “Just don’t speak unless I signal.”

“Understood. Silent, stoic, and slightly brooding. I’ll play the part.”

“You’re already playing it,” she muttered.

Ethan chuckled and turned his attention to the skyline shrinking behind them.

The investor summit was being held at an exclusive hotel downtown, one where you couldn’t book a room without a direct line to someone on the board. Veronica had an entire floor reserved.

The pitch was tomorrow, but tonight? It was all networking, charm, and well-timed smiles.

Veronica loathed it.

She could build billion-dollar technologies and restructure multinational boards in her sleep, but ask her to laugh at some legacy investor’s sexist joke over overpriced scotch? She’d rather claw her way out of a war zone again.

Still, appearances mattered.

Ethan trailed a few steps behind her through the marble lobby, dressed in a black tailored suit that made him look more like her bodyguard than her assistant. People noticed him. Not just for his looks, though that didn’t hurt, but for the way he carried himself.

Alert. Unshakeable. Watchful.

When they reached the penthouse suite, Veronica swiped her keycard, let them in, and headed straight for the minibar. She poured herself a glass of water with the same precision she used for writing algorithms.

Ethan watched her.

“Did you always hate these kinds of events?”

She sipped. “They’re a necessary evil.”

“But that’s not what I asked.”

She hesitated. “No. I didn’t always hate them. Before Colombia… I could play the game.”

“And after?”

“They felt like traps. Rooms full of people who’d smile while stabbing you under the table.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

She looked over her shoulder. “It is.”

He crossed the room, but didn’t get too close. “If it gets to be too much tonight, signal me.”

“What kind of signal?”

He grinned. “You look at me like I’ve said something stupid.”

“That’s not a signal. That’s just how I look at you.”

They both laughed, really laughed, and the sound startled them. It felt strange in this space filled with polished silence.

Veronica let the smile linger for a breath longer than usual.

Then, as if remembering herself, she straightened. “You should change. The cocktail event starts in two hours.”

Ethan nodded, but before he moved, she added, “There’s a second bedroom through that door. Your luggage is already there.”

He gave her a surprised look. “You didn’t have to”

“I did,” she interrupted. “Boundaries. Remember?”

He studied her. “Veronica, if I ever cross a line, I want you to tell me.”

She nodded once. “I will.”

And for some reason, that made him feel more trusted than any invitation to her suite ever could.

The cocktail event was held in a ballroom that looked more like an art gallery than a business venue; dim lights, angular sculptures, soothing jazz from a live quartet. Money didn’t just talk here. It glided.

Veronica entered in a sleek navy dress that dipped just enough at the back to be memorable but not distracting. She moved like she owned the floor. Because she did.

Ethan stayed close, just enough to be accessible, just far enough to respect her space.

She introduced him once to a logistics CEO from Munich, as her strategic aide. Not “assistant.” Not “secretary.”

He noticed.

And so did the man, who seemed surprised. Impressed, even.

They circled the room like that for over an hour. She was poised, magnetic, untouchable. And yet every so often, she’d glance over her shoulder, not for approval, not for help.

Just to check that he was still there.

And he always was.

Then it happened.

A man in his sixties, Harold Banks, head of a rival tech consortium cornered her near the open bar. Ethan had heard of him. Ruthless. Rich. Entitled.

He watched as Banks leaned in too close, fingers brushing Veronica’s arm as he spoke. Her spine stiffened.

Ethan didn’t wait.

He crossed the room casually, a tumbler of water in hand, and stepped between them.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said smoothly, placing the glass on a side table. “Veronica, your next meeting’s been bumped forward.”

She blinked, catching on instantly.

“Thank you,” she said, turning away from Banks.

But the older man wasn’t finished.

“Don’t tell me you brought the help to do more than carry your bags,” he said, chuckling.

Veronica froze.

Ethan turned, smiling with just enough edge to make the warning clear.

“I carry more than bags, sir.”

Banks raised a brow. “Is that a threat?”

Ethan shrugged. “No. Just a fact.”

Veronica’s voice was cool and calm when she spoke again. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Harold.”

She didn’t wait for a reply.

She walked away.

And Ethan followed.

They didn’t speak until they reached the elevator.

Then she turned to him, jaw tight. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did.”

“I’ve handled worse.”

“I know,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean you should have to handle it alone.”

The elevator doors opened.

Neither of them moved.

Something electric hung in the air.

Then she exhaled, stepped inside, and said softly, “Thank you.”

He followed her in, eyes never leaving hers.

“You’re welcome.”

Back in the suite, Veronica kicked off her heels and crossed to the window, arms crossed. The city stretched below them in gold and steel.

Ethan leaned against the wall, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled up.

“You shouldn’t have stepped in,” she said again, quieter now. “Not in front of Banks.”

“I didn’t care about Banks.”

She looked at him. “But I do. Every relationship I have in this world is a calculation. An equation. You upset the math.”

He stepped closer. “Or maybe I changed the formula.”

Veronica stared at him.

“You don’t have to keep people at arm’s length to protect yourself,” he said. “Some of us want to be here. Even when it’s hard.”

She looked away.

Then: “I don’t know how to let someone in without losing control.”

Ethan didn’t touch her. But he closed the distance between them.

“You don’t have to lose control. Just… loosen the grip. A little.”

She turned to face him.

For a moment, it was just breath and heat and proximity.

Then, softly, she said, “I don’t know what this is between us.”

He smiled. “That makes two of us.”

Her eyes searched his. “But it’s something.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s something.”

Neither of them moved.

Then the quiet buzz of her phone on the nightstand broke the moment.

She stepped back. “We have an early morning.”

Ethan nodded. “Right.”

He turned toward his room, but she called after him.

“Ethan?”

He looked back.

“I’m glad you were there tonight.”

He nodded, voice rough. “Me too.”

She didn’t close her door that night.

And neither did he.