Flight of Passion

"First class is empty except for one passenger. You're being upgraded."

Mehwish straightened her uniform and walked through the curtain, expecting a demanding businessman or entitled celebrity.

She got Amir Shah.

The tech billionaire was sprawled across his seat like he owned the aircraft—which, knowing his net worth, he possibly did. Pakistani features, sharp suit, the kind of arrogant handsomeness that usually came with terrible personality.

"Assalamu alaikum," he said, eyes traveling over her appreciatively. "You're new."

"I've worked this route for five years."

"Then I've been flying wrong." He smiled. "I'm Amir."

"I know who you are. What would you like to drink?"

"Your name."

"That's not on the menu."

His smile widened. "I like a challenge."

The twelve-hour flight became a game.

Amir was charming, persistent, and clearly unused to rejection. Mehwish was professional, polite, and determined not to become another notch on a billionaire's bedpost.

"Dinner with me," he said during the fifth hour. "London. Wherever you want."

"No thank you."

"What would it take?"

"For what?"

"For you to say yes." He leaned forward, suddenly serious. "I meet a lot of people. None of them interest me. You interest me."

"Because I said no?"

"Because you're not impressed by what I have. You're waiting to see who I am." He held her gaze. "That's rare."

She had no response to that.

The turbulence hit near hour ten.

Severe enough that passengers were crying, cabin crew strapping in, oxygen masks deploying. Mehwish checked on Amir, expecting the usual panic.

He was calm. Praying quietly, hands steady.

"Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un," he murmured. Then, catching her eye: "Are you afraid?"

"Always. But we keep working."

"Sit." He gestured to the seat beside him. "Until it passes."

She shouldn't. But the plane lurched, and suddenly she was strapped in beside him, his hand finding hers.

"My father died in a plane crash," he said quietly. "When I was twelve. This should terrify me. Instead, I think: if it's my time, it's my time. And I'd rather spend it next to someone real."

"I'm sorry about your father."

"I'm sorry I was arrogant earlier. It's a defense mechanism." His thumb traced her knuckles. "You're right to wait. To make me prove myself. Don't stop."

The turbulence passed. The flight landed. And at the gate, Amir handed her a card.

"This isn't about money," he said. "It's my personal number. If you ever want to know who I am behind the headlines... call."

She took the card.

She called.

Their first date was a quiet restaurant in East London—his choice, to prove he knew life outside first class. Their second was her mother's house, because "if you're serious, you meet my family."

Their third was his penthouse, where Mehwish finally let her walls down.

"I didn't expect this," she admitted as he undressed her slowly. "You. Us."

"Neither did I." He kissed down her neck. "But I've wanted you since you refused to be impressed."

"Still not impressed."

"Liar." He smiled against her skin. "Let me try harder."

He did—with his hands, his mouth, his focused attention—until Mehwish was crying out his name. When he finally entered her, she felt something click into place.

"Meri jaan," he breathed, moving within her. "You're everything."

"Less talking—"

"No. I want you to know." He thrust deeper. "This isn't a game. This is everything."

She came with his words in her ears, and he followed, and afterward they lay tangled in sheets that cost more than her monthly salary.

"I love you," he said simply. "I know it's fast. I don't care."

"I love you too." She kissed him. "Don't let it go to your head."

The wedding was private—her insistence, his compliance. The honeymoon was first class around the world, with Mehwish in the seat beside him instead of the galley.

She still refused to be impressed by his money.

He still loved trying to impress her anyway.