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.

The seat beside her remained empty for twenty minutes. When Mr. Stephens returned, he was wearing a different pair of trousers-black, casual slacks that somehow looked more expensive than the suit pants he'd ruined.

He sat down without a word. He didn't look at her. He put on a pair of noise-canceling headphones, effectively building a wall between them.

Belle wanted to apologize again, but the set of his jaw told her to save her breath. Besides, she had bigger problems.

The turbulence wasn't stopping. The pilot announced their descent into JFK, and the plane bucked like a wounded animal. Every drop sent Belle's stomach into a fresh spasm. Sweat beaded on her forehead, cold and sticky.

It wasn't just motion sickness. It was the stress, the lack of sleep, the three years of running on adrenaline and cheap coffee. Her body was staging a revolt.

Ding.

"Cabin crew, prepare for landing."

The plane banked sharply to the right. The cabin tilted.

Belle gagged. She unbuckled her seatbelt. She knew the sign was on, but if she didn't get to the bathroom right now, she was going to be sick right here.

She tried to stand up.

It was a mistake.

Her legs were water. The floor seemed to tilt away from her feet. The cabin spun in a sickening kaleidoscope of grey and beige. Black spots danced in her vision, blotting out the light.

She reached out blindly for support.

Her hand found warm fabric. An arm. A shoulder.

She didn't feel the impact, but she felt the heat. She collapsed forward, her body giving up the fight. She landed heavily against something solid and smelling of sandalwood and crisp linen. The scent was a ghost in the room, painfully familiar, stirring a memory she kept locked away. But it couldn't be. The man attached to the scent was a monster, not a savior. The thought was dismissed as quickly as it came, a fever-induced hallucination.

For a second, she was conscious enough to realize her face was pressed into the crook of a man's neck. Her breath, hot and ragged, fanned against his skin.

From the aisle, a flight attendant gasped. To anyone watching, it looked like the crazy girl in 1B had just thrown herself onto the billionaire in 2A.

Denis Stephens froze.

He felt the weight of her crash against him. He pulled his headphones down, ready to shove her off. This woman was a menace. First the milk, now this? Was she drunk? Was this some elaborate, pathetic attempt at a seduction?

He looked down.

She wasn't moving. Her skin, where it touched his neck, was burning up. He could smell her-beneath the stale plane air, she smelled of vanilla and fear.

She wasn't faking.

Denis looked at her hand, which was clutching his lapel like a lifeline. Her knuckles were white.

"Sir!" The flight attendant rushed forward, hands fluttering. "I can call security upon landing. She is clearly intoxicated."

Denis felt the girl's body shudder against him. A small, pained whimper escaped her lips.

"She's not drunk," Denis said, his voice cutting through the attendant's panic. "She's sick."

He didn't push her away. Instead, his hand moved-hesitantly at first, then firmly-to her waist. He held her there, anchoring her against the sway of the landing plane. Her waist was impossibly small under the leather jacket. She felt fragile, like a bird with hollow bones.

It was an annoying sensation. He didn't do fragile. He didn't do caretaking.

But he didn't let go.

The landing gear deployed with a mechanical thud. The plane hit the tarmac, bouncing once before settling. The reverse thrusters roared.

Through it all, Belle remained slumped against him, unconscious.

When the plane finally taxied to the gate, Denis tapped her cheek. Not gently.

"Wake up."

Belle groaned. Her eyelashes fluttered. She peeled herself off him, blinking in confusion. Her eyes were glassy. She looked at him, then at his shirt, realizing she had been using him as a pillow.

She scrambled back, hitting the armrest. "I... I didn't..."

"Is this a new hustle?" Denis asked, his tone dry. "Assault by dairy, followed by fainting?"

Belle wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She looked terrible. "Don't flatter yourself," she rasped. "I'm sick."

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She fumbled for it.

"Adan," she whispered into the phone. Her voice was a wreck. "Help me. I'm at the gate. I can't walk."

Denis watched her. She was trying to gather her things, but her hands were useless. She dropped her passport.

He sighed. It was a sound of pure inconvenience.

He signaled the flight attendant. "Get a wheelchair and ground crew. Now."

Belle looked up at him, surprised.

Denis stood up, buttoning his jacket. He smoothed the lapel she had crushed. He looked immaculate again, the wall re-erected.

"Try not to vomit on anyone else," he said coldly.

He grabbed his briefcase and walked away without looking back. But as he exited the jet bridge, he didn't leave immediately. He stood by the window for a fleeting second, watching as a frantic young man with tattoos ran past the gate agents toward the plane.

Only then did Denis check his watch and walk away.

Adan Hammond didn't wait for permission. He sprinted onto the plane, ignoring the protests of the ground crew. When he saw Belle slumped in the wheelchair, pale as a sheet, he swore loudly.

"What did they do to you?" he growled, scooping her up into his arms. She was lighter than he remembered.

"Home," Belle mumbled, her head lolling against his chest. "Just take me home."

"Not a chance. We're going to Lenox Hill."

The ambulance ride was a blur of sirens and potholes. Belle drifted in and out, the nausea rolling over her in waves. By the time they got her hooked up to an IV in the emergency room, she felt hollowed out.

Acute gastroenteritis. Dehydration. Exhaustion. The doctor's words floated in the air like dust motes.

Adan sat by the bed, looking like a guard dog ready to bite. "I'm going to get water," he said, squeezing her hand. "Don't move."

Belle closed her eyes. The saline drip was cold entering her vein.

She didn't hear the door open. She heard the clicking of heels.

"Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. And then spit out."

Belle's eyes snapped open.

Flo Nichols stood at the foot of the bed. She was wearing a pink tweed Chanel suit that looked ridiculous in the sterile hospital room. Behind her were two girls Belle vaguely recognized from high school-her minions.

Flo held a fruit basket like a weapon. "We heard you were back. We didn't realize you were... indisposed."

One of the minions wrinkled her nose. " it smells like vomit in here. Is that you, Belle?"

"Get out," Belle croaked. Her throat felt like sandpaper.

Flo stepped closer, her smile widening. It didn't reach her eyes. "Oh, don't be rude. We came to support you. Word is you were throwing up all over First Class. Morning sickness?"

Belle tried to sit up, but her arms shook. "I have the flu, you idiot."

"Sure," Flo said, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. "That's what they all say. Jonas will be so disappointed. He always thought you were the 'pure' one."

Jonas. The name was a physical ache in Belle's chest.

"Don't say his name," Belle said.

"Why not?" Flo touched her own collarbone. She pulled the collar of her jacket aside slightly, revealing a fresh, dark purple bruise. A hickey. "He's mine now, Belle. We're shopping for engagement party outfits later. He's very... enthusiastic."

Belle stared at the mark. Bile rose in her throat again. Jonas, who had promised to wait. Jonas, who had written her letters for six months.

One of the minions held up a phone. Click. The flash blinded Belle.

"A souvenir," the girl giggled. "For the group chat."

"Hey!"

The roar came from the doorway. Adan dropped the water bottle. It hit the floor with a crack. He charged into the room, placing himself between Belle and the girls.

"Back off," Adan snarled. He looked ready to hit someone.

Flo took a step back, feigning terror. "Oh my god. Is this the father? He looks like a criminal."

"I said get out!" Adan yelled.

Flo adjusted her purse. "Fine. We were leaving anyway. This place is depressing." She looked at Belle over Adan's shoulder. "Welcome home, Belle. Try not to ruin everything this time."

They flounced out, heels clacking.

Adan turned to check on Belle. "Did they touch you?"

Belle shook her head. She was trembling, but not from sickness anymore. It was rage. Pure, unadulterated rage.

She looked toward the corner of the room where Adan had put her carry-on suitcase.

It was gone.

"Adan," she said sharply. "My bag."

Adan looked. The corner was empty.

"Those bitches," Adan hissed. He turned to run after them.

"No!" Belle ripped the IV tape off her hand. Pain flared, sharp and bright. Blood welled up, a red bead on her pale skin.

"Belle, what are you doing?" Adan grabbed her shoulders. "You need to finish the drip."

"They took it to check for 'evidence'," Belle said, sliding off the bed. Her legs wobbled, but she forced them to hold her weight. "They want to prove I'm pregnant to humiliate me. Let them look. There's nothing in there but dirty laundry."

She grabbed her leather jacket.

"We're not staying here," she said. Her eyes were dry, hard stones. "Take me to Stanton Manor. Now."

"You can barely stand," Adan argued.

"I don't need to stand," Belle said, walking toward the door, leaving a trail of blood drops from her hand. "I need to fight."