The billionaire's forbidden pit stop

Episode 14: Midair Impulses

The silent hum of the master suite was shattered by the sharp, metallic ring of the phone resting on the glass table. Adrian lifted the device to his ear, his dark eyes fixed on the panoramic view of the Tokyo skyline bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Before he could even open his mouth to utter a single hello, a high-pitched wave of raw, unfiltered rage violently exploded through the speaker. Asaliya was screaming at the absolute top of her lungs, unleashing every single English curse word in her vocabulary without taking a single breath to recover.

"You f*****g insane, disgusting, narcissistic piece of absolute garbage!" Asaliya’s voice shrieked, vibrating so intensely that the audio distorted through the satellite receiver. "You wretched, miserable, motherfucking psycho! What the actual f**k did you do?! You sociopathic, controlling, goddamn bastard! You rotten, son of a b***h, I f*****g hate you! You rotten, miserable asshole, go die in a hole!"

Adrian didn't even flinch. With practiced, mechanical composure, he calmly pulled the phone a few inches away from his ear, holding the device at arm's length as the barrage of loud, furious profanities continued to echo into the luxury bedroom. He stood completely still in his dark towel, water droplets slowly tracing down his broad, scarred chest, waiting in total silence for the storm to run out of momentum.

After nearly a solid minute of relentless swearing, Asaliya’s breathless curses finally slowed down to a series of harsh, frantic gasps for air.

Adrian brought the phone back to his ear, his voice dropping into a dangerously quiet, smooth register.

"Are you finished?" Adrian asked flatly. He paused, his expression unreadable. "Do you want to discuss this like a civilized human being, or do you prefer to keep screaming into an empty room?"

On the other end of the line, Asaliya let out a shaky, frustrated breath, trying to force her wildly erratic breathing into check. "Yes! I f*****g need to discuss this! I can't keep up with this s**t anymore, Adrian! My phone hasn't stopped ringing for six hours! My friends, my acquaintances, people I haven't talked to in years—everyone on social media is spamming me with endless questions about who I am to you, why I'm pinned against your car, and what the hell is happening between us! My whole life is falling apart because of your damn circus!"

Adrian’s lips twitched slightly, a subtle, cold shift taking over his features. "Send me your location."

"What?" Asaliya snapped back defensively. "Why?"

"Send me your location," Adrian repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Where are you right now?"

"I'm in Sydney," Asaliya muttered bitterly. "Back at my place."

Adrian turned his head, his dark eyes landing on the sleek, digital clock resting on the bedside nightstand. The illuminated numbers glowed back at him in the dim room. The time was running rapidly—it was almost Tuesday morning in Japan. His schedule for the upcoming Japanese Grand Prix was brutally tight; he was strictly required to be at the Suzuka paddock by Thursday morning for the mandatory press conferences and simulator practice sessions. Traveling back to Australia right now was completely illogical from a professional standpoint.

Yet, he didn't hesitate.

"I will be at your place Wednesday morning," Adrian said calmly.

"Wait—what?! You're in Japan!" Asaliya blurted out, clearly thrown off by his absurd declaration. But before she could protest or question him further, Adrian hung up the phone, cutting the connection instantly.

He threw the phone onto the bed and stared out at the city lights. Logically, there was absolutely no reason for him to rush across the Pacific ocean. He had achieved his exact objective—he had stripped away her anonymity, dragged her into his light, and backed her into a corner where she had no choice but to face him. But as he stood in the quiet room, a strange, unfamiliar weight settled heavily in his chest. A subtle, irritating flicker of guilt passed through his mind. After all, despite her lethal hatred, her sharp tongue, and her endless defiance... she was just a girl. A girl whose quiet world he had completely wrecked with a single, calculated command.

Adrian picked up his phone again and dialed Zain’s private line.

Zain answered on the second ring, his voice crisp. "Mr. Novak? Is everything alright with the hotel arrangements?"

"Prepare the private jet immediately," Adrian commanded coldly, walking toward his walk-in closet. "Route the flight plan directly back to Sydney. I want the wheels up within ninety minutes."

There was a long, suffocating silence on the line as Zain processed the sentence. Then, Zain’s voice broke into a frantic, high-pitched panic. "Mr. Novak—sir! Are you insane?! You just landed in Tokyo! Flying all the way back to Sydney right now is an unbelievable physical risk! The fatigue, the jet lag, the extreme pressure on your body right before the Suzuka race weekend—if the team directors or the board find out you are pulling a emergency round-trip flight across continents, it will create a massive scandal! You cannot do this!"

"Make the flight arrangements, Zain," Adrian cut him off, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp, terrifying whisper that instantly paralyzed his secretary. "Now."

Zain swallowed hard, his professional resistance crumbling under the raw authority of his boss. "Understood, sir. I will clear the private air corridor immediately."

Adrian dressed rapidly, throwing on a simple set of clothes and grabbing his travel documents. He didn't notify a single soul about his sudden departure. He didn't inform team management, he didn't text Ren, and he certainly didn't leave a message for Felix. He kept the entire movement dead silent, taking only his elite personal security guards as he slipped out the back service elevator of the hotel and plunged back into the dark Tokyo night, heading straight toward the airport runway.

The sun had barely begun to scrape across the morning sky in Sydney when the quiet suburban street woke up.

Inside her small, modest apartment, Asaliya was operating like a literal ghost. She hadn't slept a single wink the entire night. It wasn't like she hadn't tried; she had laid in the dark, staring blankly at the ceiling, periodically closing her sore, burning eyes for a few minutes before the sheer, overwhelming anxiety of the media storm jerked her awake again. Her phone was sitting face down on the kitchen counter, completely muted, still buzzing relentlessly from unread notifications.

Suddenly, the sharp, ringing tone of her front doorbell echoed loudly through the small living room.

Asaliya jumped slightly, her heart instantly leaping into her throat. She crept slowly toward the entryway, her body stiff with tension. Before pulling the handle, she reached out and tapped the small digital screen connected to the external security camera.

Her jaw dropped.

Standing right outside her front door, towering beneath the narrow porch light, was Adrian Novak.

Asaliya took a deep breath, her face pale, her dark circles clearly visible beneath her eyes. She reached forward and unlocked the deadbolt, swinging the heavy wooden door open like a hollow ghost emerging from the dark.

"You're actually here..." Asaliya began, her voice raspy from exhaustion. But as her eyes traveled up his massive frame, her words completely died in her throat. She froze, staring at him with an intensely creepy, utterly baffled look on her face.

Adrian was standing on her welcome mat, looking completely out of place. But it wasn't just his intimidating height or his broad shoulders that shocked her—it was his clothes. Adrian Novak, a man who famously wore nothing but tailored, jet-black suits, dark monochrome hoodies, and shadowy high-end street style, was currently wearing a pair of bright, casual white-and-yellow-colored pants paired with a neutral beige jacket.

Asaliya’s eyebrow twitched violently as she looked down at the bright yellow accents on his legs, then slowly looked back up at his cold, unreadable face. The contrast was so bizarre that for a second, her brain completely short-circuited.

"What... what the hell are you wearing?" Asaliya asked, giving him an intensely weirded-out stare. "Did someone paint you in your sleep? You look ridiculous. You literally never wear colorful clothes."

Adrian looked down at his own trousers, entirely unbothered by her judgment, before meeting her gaze with a flat, icy stare. "If I walked through an international airport and a public Sydney residential district dressed in head-to-toe black, every paparazzi photographer within a ten-mile radius would instantly recognize my silhouette and track me straight to your doorstep."

Asaliya blinked, taking a small step back into the entry hall. She crossed her arms over her chest, letting out a dry, sarcastic hum. "Huh. Look at that. So you actually do have a brain inside that heavy skull of yours."

Adrian stepped past her, completely ignoring her invitation as his massive frame entered her apartment, instantly making her cozy living space feel suffocatingly small. He turned around slowly, his terrifyingly calm black eyes locking onto her exhausted, pale face. A faint, razor-sharp smirk touched the edge of his lips.

"I am way more intelligent than you could ever comprehend, sweetheart," Adrian whispered softly, his voice dripping with a dark, dangerous arrogance that made the air in the room freeze. "That is precisely why you ended up in my hands in the first place."

Asaliya’s face darkened instantly. The sheer audacity of his words sent a fresh surge of white-hot fury rushing through her veins. She didn't say a word. She simply stood her ground, her body tense, lifting her head to glare at him with an absolute, lethal death stare that promised pure, unforgiving retribution.