First Class was a cocoon of muted gold light and hushed voices. Dami slid into seat 2A, Bolaji settling beside her with the easy familiarity of someone who'd paid for the privilege.

"Ten hours to Frankfurt," he said, clicking his seatbelt. "Then another six to Lagos. Plenty of time to catch up."

Dami forced a smile, hyperaware of the other passengers filing past. Where was Tyrel? She'd seen him board, but—

"Excuse me." A deep voice, polite but immovable.

Dami looked up. One of Tyrel's men—Marcus, the one with the scar—stood in the aisle, looking down at Bolaji with the kind of smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"I believe you're in my boss' seat," Marcus said.

Bolaji frowned. "I'm in 2B. Check your boarding pass."

"I have." Marcus didn't move. Behind him, another of Tyrel's men appeared, blocking the aisle. The space suddenly felt smaller, more oppressive.

Bolaji's jaw tightened. He looked at Dami, then back at Marcus. "Is this really necessary?"

"My boss prefers to sit next to his fiancée." Marcus's tone was pleasant, but the underlying message was clear: Move, or we'll move you.

The cabin had gone quiet. A flight attendant approached, looking concerned, but one glance at Marcus's expression and she hesitated.

Bolaji stood slowly, deliberately. As he gathered his things, he had to squeeze past Marcus in the narrow aisle. For a moment, the two men were chest-to-chest.

Bolaji moved past, and Dami watched him settle into a seat several rows back, his expression tight with barely controlled anger.

Then Tyrel appeared.

He slid into 2B with the ease of someone accustomed to getting his way, barely acknowledging the disruption he'd just caused. His cologne—expensive, subtle—filled the small space between them.

"Comfortable?" he asked, adjusting his seatbelt.

Dami kept her voice low. "That was unnecessary."

"Was it?" Tyrel pulled out his phone, scrolling casually. "We're engaged. It would look strange if I sat rows away while you cozied up with your ex."

"We were just talking—"

"I know." He finally looked at her, his expression unreadable. "That's the problem."

The engines roared to life. The flight attendant began the safety demonstration. Around them, passengers settled in, oblivious to the tension crackling between seats 2A and 2B.

"You're going to have to trust me eventually," Dami said.

"No, I don't." Tyrel's voice was quiet but firm. "I just need you to play your part. Everything else is optional."

The plane began to taxi. Through the window, Seattle fell away—the last glimpse of everything familiar before they committed fully to the lie.

The engines roared. The acceleration pressed her back into her seat, and then they were airborne climbing through clouds, leaving solid ground behind.

Once the seatbelt sign chimed off, the attendant brought champagne.

Tyrel accepted his glass, then turned to Dami with a smile that was pure performance. "To us," he said, loud enough for nearby passengers to hear.

Dami lifted her glass, matching his performance. "To us."

They clinked glasses, and for a moment, their eyes met. There was something there—not warmth, exactly, but a recognition. They were in this together now, whether they liked it or not.

Tyrel leaned closer, his voice dropping. "Your friend looked unhappy about the seat change."

"His name is Bolaji. And yes, he's unhappy. You embarrassed him."

"He'll survive." Tyrel sipped his champagne. "What did you tell him? About why I wasn't sitting with you?"

"That you upgraded Eni's seat instead of mine. That he begged to fly First Class for the first time and I agreed to give up the upgrade."

Tyrel's mouth curved slightly. "Clever. Did he believe it?"

"He wanted to believe it. There's a difference."

The plane settled into its cruising altitude. The cabin lights dimmed. Around them, passengers began to doze, read, watch movies. First Class transformed into a collection of private cocoons, each traveler in their own world.

But Dami couldn't relax. She was too aware of Tyrel beside her, of Bolaji somewhere behind them, of the web of lies she was spinning and the fifteen hours ahead before they landed in Lagos.

"You should sleep," Tyrel said, not looking at her. "Long day ahead when we land."

"I can't."

"Nervous?"

"Wouldn't you be?"

He was quiet for a moment. "I'm always nervous before a job. The trick is not letting anyone see it."

"Is that what this is to you? A job?"

"What else would it be?"

She didn't have an answer. Or maybe she did, but wasn't ready to admit it—that somewhere in the past two weeks of training, of learning his tells and teaching him hers, something had shifted. Not trust, exactly. But something.

"Get some rest, Dami." His voice was softer now, almost gentle.

Despite herself, despite everything, she felt her eyes growing heavy. The champagne, the tension, the exhaustion of maintaining the façade—it all caught up at once.

As she drifted off, her last conscious thought was of Tyrel beside her, still awake, still watchful.

Still dangerous.

But for now, inexplicably, she felt safe.

***

Hours later, Dami woke to movement.

She opened her eyes just as Bolaji returned from the bathroom, his gaze finding hers in the dim cabin. There was a question in his expression—concern, maybe, or suspicion.

Beside her, Tyrel's hand moved to rest on the armrest between them. Not touching her, but close. A statement of territory.

Bolaji's eyes flicked down, then back to Dami. Something hardened in his expression before he continued past.

"He's going to be a problem," Tyrel said quietly.

"I know."

"Can you handle him?"

"I have to."

Tyrel shifted in his seat, and suddenly his hand was on hers—warm, firm, deliberate. "When we land, the performance becomes real. No breaks, no timeouts. Every moment, we're selling this."

His thumb brushed across her knuckles, a gesture that looked affectionate but felt like a reminder. A warning.

"I understand," she whispered.

"Good." But he didn't let go of her hand.

As the plane began its descent toward Frankfurt, Dami realized with a start that she wasn't sure anymore whether his touch was part of the performance—or something more complicated.

Something more dangerous.