CRAVING DADDY'S BEST FRIEND

Chapter Fifteen: The Concrete Runway

Abigail Macron

The service elevator smelled faintly of industrial cleaning fluid and damp linen, a sterile contrast to the heavy, musky atmosphere of Room 4012. I stood pressed against the steel wall, my hands shoved deep into the pockets of Caleb’s oversized linen shirt. I had rolled the waistband of his dark trousers twice just to keep them from slipping off my hips, and my blonde hair was spreading over my shoulders—a desperate shield against the angry, purple bruises he had left along the curve of my shoulder.

My phone buzzed in my palm.

Jasmine: I’m in the lobby. Your bags are loaded. The security guys are sweating through their suits. Where are you?

Me: Landing now. Service entrance.

The elevator doors slid open with a heavy, mechanical groan, revealing the bustling, subterranean loading dock of the Ritz-Carlton. I didn't look at the staff as I slipped past them, my pulse hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I cut through the back corridors and burst out into the bright, humid daylight of the main valet bay just as a sleek, black corporate SUV pulled up to the curb.

Jasmine was already standing by the open rear door, her face a rigid mask of forced composure. But the second her eyes landed on me—wearing Caleb’s clothes, my face entirely stripped of makeup and flushed with a guilty, frantic heat—her breath hitched.

"Get in," she whispered, her hand looping around my elbow and practically shoving me into the leather interior before the security driver could turn around from the front seat.

The door slammed shut with a heavy, vacuum-sealed thud, cutting off the noise of Roppongi. The SUV instantly pulled away from the curb, acceleration throwing me back against the seat.

"Miss Macron," the driver spoke, his eyes reflecting in the rearview mirror—cold, professional, and entirely unblinking. "Your father has requested a direct route to the Haneda tarmac. We have an escort clearing the expressway tolls. We should land at the hangar in exactly eighteen minutes."

"Thank you, Thomas," I managed to say, my voice sounding tight, high, and entirely synthetic.

The moment the driver turned his gaze back to the road, Jasmine whipped her head toward me, her eyes wide with a mixture of terror and dark fascination. "Are you insane?" she hissed under her breath, her voice barely a vibration against the hum of the engine. "You're wearing his shirt, Abby. Anyone who looks at you for more than two seconds is going to realize those aren't your clothes."

"My dress was torn," I whispered back, my fingers clenching into fists inside the oversized pockets. "I didn't have a choice. Caleb told me to wear this."

"Caleb is trying to keep us from a federal execution," Jasmine muttered, reaching into her designer tote bag and pulling out a large pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses and a silk scarf. She threw them into my lap. "Put these on. Hide your face. If your dad looks at you too closely when we board, tell him you caught a migraine from the Tokyo humidity."

I pulled the silk scarf around my neck, checking the mirror to ensure every single trace of Caleb’s possessive grip was hidden beneath the fabric. The sunglasses hid the raw, heavy exhaustion in my eyes. Outside the tinted windows, the Tokyo skyline began to blur, replaced by the industrial concrete and massive crane structures of the metropolitan expressway leading toward the bay.

The eighteen minutes passed like an executioner’s walk. Every tick of the digital dashboard clock felt like a step closer to a precipice.

When the SUV finally veered off the main highway and tore through the restricted security gates of the Haneda private terminal, the reality of the cage hit me. There, sitting on the pristine concrete of the tarmac, was my father’s corporate Gulfstream. Its twin engines were already screaming, a low, deafening whine that vibrated through the chassis of our car.

And standing right at the base of the folding air-stairs, surrounded by a team of tech compliance officers holding encrypted tablets, was my father.

Beside him stood Caleb.

He had already changed. The unraveled predator from Room 4012 was gone, completely replaced by the ruthless, flawless Chief Operating Officer. His charcoal suit was immaculate, his white shirt buttoned to the throat, his dark tie perfectly knotted. He was holding a glass of iced water, his face an unreadable, stony mask as he listened to my father bark orders into a satellite phone.

The SUV ground to a halt. The driver scrambled out to open our doors.

"Keep your head down," Jasmine warned one last time, stepping out into the roaring heat of the tarmac.

I stepped out behind her, the hot, jet-fuel-scented wind ripping at the edges of Caleb’s oversized shirt. I walked toward the plane, my knees feeling like liquid, my eyes fixed entirely on the concrete beneath my sneakers.

"Abby! Jasmine! Get up those stairs," my father shouted over the roar of the engines, waving his hand toward the cabin door without taking the phone away from his ear. "We’re wheels up in three minutes! Caleb, get the secondary encryption keys loaded the second we hit ten thousand feet!"

"Already on it, David," Caleb’s voice carried over the wind—calm, authoritative, and entirely steady.

As I reached the base of the stairs, I had to step past him. The space was narrow, restricted by the security detail lining the walkway. For a fraction of a second, the world slowed down to an agonizing crawl.

I didn't look at his face. I didn't dare. But as my foot hit the first step, Caleb moved slightly to let me pass. His shoulder brushed against mine, a hard, brief contact that sent a violent jolt of electric heat straight down my spine. And in that split second, beneath the heavy scent of jet fuel and tarmac heat, I caught it—the distinct, unmistakable trace of my own expensive perfume lingering on the lapel of his corporate suit.

He hadn't washed it off. He was carrying the scent of our sin straight into my father’s presence.

I scrambled up the stairs and ducked into the luxurious, cream-leather cabin of the private jet, my heart hammering so hard I thought it would burst through my chest. I took my seat in the back corner, pulling the window shade down as the heavy cabin door sealed shut with a terrifyingly final thud.

A moment later, my father and Caleb entered the cabin. They sat across from each other at the mahogany conference table in the center of the jet, immediately throwing open their laptops, their faces buried in lines of data and corporate compliance.

Caleb sat with his back to me, his broad shoulders dominating the narrow cabin space. He didn't look back once. He didn't acknowledge my existence. He was the perfect, loyal vanguard.

But as the jet began to move down the runway, preparing to hurtle us back across the ocean to the rigid rules of my father’s empire, I felt a heavy, dangerous warmth settle deep into my core.

We were back in the cage, surrounded by my father’s security and the threat of total ruin. But as I stared at the back of Caleb’s head, I knew the truth. The fire hadn't been put out. It was just burning under the surface, waiting for the cabin lights to dim.