TO DIE FOR

JAIME'S POV

“When are you coming back, Jaime?” Celine’s voice crackled through the line, warm and familiar.

“In a week, my love.”

The words left my mouth without resistance. I end the call before guilt could catch up, the screen going dark in my palm. Outside the jet window, the city lights thinned into ribbons, then vanished beneath a blanket of clouds. New York was already plotted on the flight path blinking softly on the console.

“Ariel,” I said, loosening my cufflinks, “a glass of scotch.”

She nodded and disappeared down the aisle. The cabin hummed, steady and indulgent, the kind of silence money buys. I flipped open my laptop, the screen's glow washing over the darkened leather of the seat. Celine had been dropping hints for weeks, nothing gauche, just the occasional "oh, that’s interesting" while scrolling through her feed. I had exactly three hours to find the perfect gift. ​

I bypassed the usual bookmarks and headed straight for the private client portals. If I was going to make up for missing the gallery opening, it had to be something that wasn't just expensive, but elusive. I paused, cursor hovering, imagining her smile, the way her eyes lit up when she thought she was unprepared for me. The scotch arrived, amber catching the cabin lights as the glass settled beside my laptop.

“Anything else, sir?” ​Ariel was standing well within my personal perimeter. She was a study in calculated provocation. Perfectly curled lashes that looked like they’d been applied with a protractor. A plastic-smooth smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Her makeup was so precise, so heavy, it felt less like a face and more like a mask stamped onto a mannequin. ​Her uniform, a standard-issue company suit, had been tailored into something entirely different. It clung where it shouldn’t, the fabric strained across her hips; the skirt was hemmed to a height that dared the altitude to drop, and the neckline was an open argument against gravity. She wasn’t just serving a drink; she was auditioning for a role that didn’t exist in my employ. ​My gaze dropped—slow, deliberate, stripping away the illusion of her "effort"—then returned to her face. I saw the flash of triumph in her eyes. She thought she’d won. She thought the silence meant I was considering the invitation.

​“Actually,” I said, my voice calm, almost curious, “yes.” ​Her smile sharpened. She leaned in just a fraction more, the scent of a heavy, cloying perfume hitting me. It was a scent that smelled like desperation disguised as luxury. She thought she was about to become a permanent fixture in the life of a billionaire.

​“You’re fired,” I said. ​The word didn't just fall; it landed with the weight of a lead pipe. ​Her breath hitched, a jagged sound in the quiet cabin. The "seductive" posture collapsed instantly, her shoulders squaring in a defensive jerk.

“Excuse me?” ​“I don’t like to repeat myself, Ariel. It’s inefficient.” ​“You can’t fire me,” she stuttered, her voice losing its melodic lilt and turning shrill. She crossed her arms, trying to reclaim some semblance of authority, pushing confidence where it clearly didn’t belong.

“I’ve been with this charter firm for two years. I have a contract. I haven't done anything wrong.” ​I reached for my phone, my movements fluid and cold.

“Watch me.” ​

“I didn’t even do anything!” she cried. A crease formed between her manicured brows, the first real crack in the high-gloss polish of her exterior.

“I was being attentive. I was providing the service you pay for!”

​“You were providing a service I find distasteful,” I replied, my voice dropping to a level that usually made boardrooms go silent.

“You are on a private business vessel, not a casting couch. Your hemline is a liability, your conduct is a distraction, and your presence has become an eyesore. I pay for precision, Ariel. You are giving me theatre.” ​

The line connected on the first ring.

​“Hello,” I said, my eyes never leaving her face. I watched the blood drain from her cheeks, leaving the blush looking like red bruises on her skin.

“Mr. Taro. How can I help you?”

“I need Ariel replaced. Immediately.” Silence stretched. The hum of the jet filled it. ​

“Of course, Mr. Taro,” the voice finally replied, sounding both terrified and resigned. “We apologize for the lapse. We will have a replacement on the tarmac. Right away.”

​I ended the call. Ariel stood there for a heartbeat, her hands trembling. Then, she turned sharply, her heels biting into the expensive carpet with a series of angry, rhythmic stabs as she stormed down the aisle toward the crew quarters. ​I took a measured sip of the scotch.

The burn bloomed slowly and satisfyingly in my throat. It wasn't about the girl—she was a footnote. It was about the environment.

My life was a series of chaotic variables I couldn't control; my cabin was the one place where I demanded the world bend to my will. ​Victory, quiet and absolute, lingered on my tongue.

The cabin dimmed to a hush that felt earned. My laptop rested open on my knees, screen glowing with a bracelet she’d once admired in a shop window. Tabs multiplied, carts filled, emptied, filled again.

I weighed each option with the same precision I applied to contracts, imagining her expression when she’d open the boxes, the careful neutrality she’d pretend, the softness that would follow when she thought no one was watching.

The scotch sat forgotten now, a thin ring of amber clinging to the glass. Somewhere between a pair of heels and a watch she’d never buy for herself, the hum of the jet grew warmer, steadier. My eyes burned. I leaned back, meaning only to rest them for a second. The cursor blinked patiently. Sleep took me without permission.

—

“Sir.” The word cut through the fog like a blade.

“Mr. Taro.” A hand hovered near my shoulder, respectful, firm. I surfaced reluctantly, the cabin lights brighter than before, the laptop chiming softly as it slipped into sleep mode. My neck protested as I straightened.

“Yes?” My voice was rough, unused. The pilot stood in the aisle, cap tucked under his arm, expression professional but edged with relief.

“We’ve landed, sir. Touchdown was smooth. Customs will be ready shortly.” I blinked once, then nodded, orienting myself to the now-still silence.

“Thank you,” I said. He stepped away. I gathered my cufflinks, their weight familiar, grounding. I slid the laptop into its case without reopening it.

I reached for the scotch and found it warm. I didn’t drink it. Somewhere ahead of me were boxes waiting to be delivered, expectations waiting to be judged, and a woman who would search for meaning in every choice I’d made half-asleep at thirty thousand feet. I rose as the jet settled fully into rest.

Outside, the night gleamed off the polished frame of my black Bentley, William already waiting beside it. I walked toward him at an unhurried pace, the fatigue finally catching up to me.

“Welcome back, sir,” he said warmly, opening the door.

“Thank you, William.”

“Madame will be thrilled to have you home,” he added with a knowing smile.

“I hope you didn’t warn her about my arrival,” I said lightly.

“Definitely not, sir,” he laughed. William had been around for as long as I could remember—first my father’s chauffeur, then mine when I launched CJ Media Group. Somewhere along the way, he stopped being staff and became part of the family.

The drive back to the penthouse passed in comfortable silence, the city lights blurring past as exhaustion settled into my bones. Still, beneath it all was anticipation. I couldn’t wait to hold my princess again.

I reopened the shopping tabs I’d left suspended midair, a digital trail of her unspoken desires. These were the little things she’d admired in passing, assuming I was buried in my phone and hadn't noticed. After one final, meticulous review of the purchase details, ensuring they’d be available for pick up and I confirmed the orders.

“Transaction complete” the screen read. Perfect.

“William,” I said, tapping out a message, “I’ll send you a list for pickup tomorrow. Have everything delivered to the penthouse.”

“Yes, sir.” The car eased into the driveway, headlights cutting through the quiet. Home at last.

“Leave the bags in the car, William. You can have the maids send them up in the morning” I walked toward the elevator with a tight smile I couldn’t suppress, pulse quickening at the thought of Celine waiting above. Suddenly, the elevator ride felt unbearably slow, every passing second stretching as I climbed closer to Celine. Eventually, the doors opened to my apartment.

“Celine?”

“Celine?!”

I called again, the name echoing back at me, hollow and unanswered. Unease slid down my spine. I dropped my laptop onto the dining counter and headed for the bedroom. The sheets were cold. The bathroom lights were off. Empty.

Where could she be?

I moved faster, checking the pool area, my heart thudding harder with every step. The water lay still, untouched, the deck eerily quiet. Then I heard it. Muffled sounds coming from the gym room. It got louder with each step. I reached the door.

Paused.

Another sound followed. A laugh I knew too well. My hand closed around the handle.

I pushed the door open.

And there she was, Celine, wrapped in nothing but a man's skin. The world seemed to tilt. My knees nearly buckled at the sight of both of them.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his fingers still possessively tangled in her hair the same hair I’d kissed a thousand times.

Realisation hit like ice. His face was one I could never forget, not even after five years. The name tore out of my chest before I could stop it.

“David?!”

In that very moment, it was as though a stake went through my heart.

JAIME'S POV

“Oh my God, Jaime—”

Celine jerked upright, her palms scraping against the mat as she scrambled backward, limbs tangling in panic. Her gaze slammed into mine, eyes blown wide, she reached blindly for her dress, clutching it to her chest, as though fabric could erase the moment—could rewind time to before the door opened, before I saw everything.

For minutes, I just stood there, unmoving. My mind refused to accept what my eyes had already carved into me. How could the woman I vowed to make my wife be intimate with my ex–best friend? Of all people. Of all betrayals.

“Kitchen. Now. Both of you,” I ordered, my voice sharp enough to cut glass. I didn’t wait for a response. I turned and walked away before my hands did something my conscience couldn’t undo. The kitchen lights hummed softly when I got there. I took a seat at the head of the table, fingers laced together, knuckles white. My jaw ached from how tightly I was clenching it. A few minutes lat