Obsessed By Blackwood

Chapter 5– Private Jet

Aria POV

The jet waited at the far end of the private runway like a promise wrapped in danger.

Sleek. Black. Quietly predatory.

I stopped at the bottom of the steps, my overnight bag suddenly heavier in my hand. The morning air was cool, sharp enough to wake me fully, but it did nothing to steady the strange flutter in my chest.

"Miss Rivera."

Victor stood a few paces behind me, tablet tucked under his arm. Ever-present. Unavoidable.

"Is there a problem?" he asked.

I shook my head. "No. I just... didn't realize we were traveling today."

Victor's expression didn't change. "Mr. Blackwood adjusted the schedule."

Of course he did.

I climbed the steps slowly, aware of every movement, every camera I couldn't see. The jet's door opened into a space that felt less like an aircraft and more like a floating penthouse—cream leather seats, dark wood accents, soft lighting that erased all sense of altitude or speed.

Damien Blackwood stood near the window, jacket already draped over a seat, sleeves rolled up again. He was looking at his phone, expression unreadable.

"You're late," he said without looking up.

"I was on time," I replied before I could stop myself.

That earned his attention.

His gaze lifted, sharp and assessing, then lingered in a way that made my pulse misbehave. Instead of reprimanding me, he gave the faintest hint of a smile.

"Good," he said. "You're learning to correct people."

"I'm not correcting you," I said carefully. "I'm correcting the assumption."

He studied me for a moment longer, then gestured toward the seat across from him. "Sit."

I did.

The door closed with a soft, final sound. Moments later, the jet began to move.

Only then did the reality settle in.

We were alone.

No assistants. No entourage. No buffer.

Just Damien Blackwood and me, sealed into the sky.

I folded my hands in my lap, forcing myself to breathe evenly. "Where are we going?"

"New York," he said. "A fitting. A dinner. An introduction."

"To who?" I asked.

"To people who will decide how much of you the world gets to see," Damien replied.

The jet lifted smoothly, the ground falling away beneath us. My stomach dipped, but I kept my eyes forward.

"I thought training came first," I said.

"It does," he replied. "Consider this... observational."

I glanced at him. "You like watching."

His lips curved slightly. "I like understanding."

The flight attendant appeared briefly, offering drinks. Damien declined. I accepted water, my throat suddenly dry.

When we were alone again, Damien leaned back in his seat, long legs stretched out comfortably. He looked completely at ease, as if the jet were an extension of himself.

"You're tense," he said.

"Am I?" I replied.

"Yes."

I resisted the urge to argue. "It's my first time on a private jet."

"Is it the height," he asked, "or the isolation?"

I hesitated.

"That answers my question," he said.

The jet leveled out, the faint hum of the engines settling into a steady rhythm. Time stretched, suspended somewhere between departure and arrival.

"You didn't ask why I brought you alone," Damien noted.

"I assumed there wasn't a choice," I said.

"There's always a choice," he replied. "You just didn't ask for alternatives."

I looked out the window, watching clouds slide past like secrets. "Would there have been alternatives?"

"No," he said calmly.

I laughed softly despite myself. "Then why pretend?"

"Because one day," Damien said, "there will be. And I want to know how you behave when you have them."

I turned back to him. "This is a test."

"Everything is," he replied.

Silence fell again, heavier this time. I could feel his attention like a physical thing, tracing the line of my jaw, the tension in my shoulders.

"Relax," he said. "I won't bite."

"That's not comforting," I said.

"It wasn't meant to be."

I shifted in my seat, crossing my legs. The movement drew his gaze, slow and unapologetic.

"You're aware of how you present yourself," Damien said.

"I'm wearing jeans and a sweater," I replied.

"And you're sitting like you own the space," he said. "That's not accidental."

Heat crept into my cheeks. "You're reading too much into it."

"I don't read too much," he said quietly. "I read accurately."

The jet hit mild turbulence, a brief shudder that sent a jolt through me. Instinctively, I reached for the armrest.

Damien's hand was already there.

Our fingers brushed.

The contact was brief—nothing more than skin against skin—but it sent a sharp awareness through me. I pulled my hand back quickly, heart racing.

Damien didn't.

He watched me, eyes darkening just a fraction.

"You don't like surprises," he said.

"I don't like losing control," I corrected.

"Neither do I," he replied. "That's why we'll get along."

The words settled between us, heavy with implication.

Midway through the flight, Damien stood and moved toward the small bar area. "Coffee?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, then added, "Please."

He prepared it himself, movements unhurried, practiced. When he handed me the cup, his fingers lingered a moment too long.

"You're adjusting faster than expected," he said.

"To what?" I asked.

"To me."

I met his gaze. "That wasn't part of the contract."

"No," he agreed. "But it's inevitable."

I sipped the coffee, grateful for something to do with my hands. "You're very sure of yourself."

"I've learned the cost of uncertainty," Damien replied. "I don't indulge in it."

"And what does that make me?" I asked. "An indulgence?"

His eyes held mine. "An investment."

The word should have offended me.

Instead, it made my chest tighten in a way I didn't entirely dislike.

The rest of the flight passed in fragments—conversation that danced around intimacy without touching it, silences that felt charged rather than empty. By the time the jet began its descent, I felt like I'd crossed an invisible line.

New York rose up beneath us, sprawling and unforgiving.

As the jet touched down, Damien stood once more, adjusting his jacket.

"We'll be busy once we land," he said. "Stay close."

"I always do," I replied before thinking.

He paused, turning back to me slowly. "Careful," he said. "That sounded like a habit."

I swallowed. "I meant physically."

"I know," he said. "That's what concerns me."

The door opened. Noise rushed in—movement, voices, the world asserting itself again. Relief and disappointment tangled in my chest.

At the top of the steps, Damien stopped abruptly, forcing me to halt behind him.

He turned, his face unreadable.

"You did well today," he said. "You observed. You adapted."

I waited, sensing there was more.

"You won't be flying alone again," Damien continued.

I frowned. "I wasn't alone this time."

"That's exactly my point," he said.

Understanding dawned slowly, unsettling in its clarity.

"You mean..." I began.

"I mean," Damien said softly, leaning in just enough for only me to hear, "from now on, if you're in the air—so am I."

The weight of the promise settled over me, equal parts protection and possession.

He straightened, offering no further explanation, and stepped onto the tarmac.

I followed, my heartbeat echoing louder than the engines behind us.

Because I knew then—this wasn't about convenience.

It was about proximity.

And Damien Blackwood had decided that distance was no longer acceptable.