I Don't Want To Leave
HARDIN’S POV
I didn’t want to leave her.
Every part of me rebelled at the thought. My limbs dragged, my chest felt tight, and even the crisp collar of my shirt felt wrong against my skin—as if my body itself was rejecting the idea of Switzerland. But Ariana stood in front of me, looking far too composed for someone who had broken down in my arms just hours ago.
She smoothed the fabric of her emerald-green office dress, something sleek and understated that somehow made her look like power wrapped in silk. Her hair was pulled back into a low bun, a few damp strands still clinging around her temples. And despite everything, she smiled.
“You’re staring,” she said softly, stepping in to adjust my tie.
“I know,” I murmured, drinking her in. “Can’t help it.”
Her fingers worked expertly—quick, precise, practiced. She always fixed my tie when I had somewhere important to be. I hated that this time it was to send me away.
“You sure you’re okay?” I asked again, my voice a little too raw.
Her eyes flicked up to mine. “I’m okay, Hardin. Really.”
I wanted to believe her.
I couldn’t push. Not yet. I needed her to give it to me willingly.
She straightened my collar one last time and stepped back. “You’ll be fine. Just a few days.”
“Too many.”
She smiled again, smaller this time. “Be a good boy in Switzerland.”
I raised a brow, playing along despite the heaviness in my chest. “Yes, ma’am.”
She rolled her eyes, grabbed her purse and phone, and headed for the elevator. I followed, suitcase in hand, every step away from her a silent protest.
As the doors slid open, she glanced back. “You know you’ll have a target on your back if your mother finds out you skipped the trip.”
“I’d rather deal with her wrath than leave you like this.”
“I know,” she whispered. “But don’t. Don’t give her another reason to come after me.”
And there it was. The real reason she was pushing me to go. My mother.
We rode down in silence, her fingers brushing mine once, twice, before she finally took my hand in hers. Her touch was warm, grounding. I held on like it might be the last time.
The car was already waiting outside. Black, sleek, impersonal and we stepped in, the trunk already loaded.
Ariana slid behind the wheel with a smirk. “You’re not escaping me that easily,” she said as she buckled in.
“You’re driving me?”
“Damn right I am. Can’t trust you not to bail halfway there.”
She wasn’t wrong.
I watched her drive—confident, composed, her knuckles white around the steering wheel. I knew she was holding herself together for me. And it made me want to cancel everything, consequences be damned.
The city blurred past us in muted colors, washed out by morning light. My phone buzzed twice in my jacket pocket. I ignored it.
Then the jet came into view—sleek, silver, a damn monument to luxury and obligation. Ariana pulled up to the private tarmac, the security gate lifting as if the universe knew better than to delay her.
But the moment we stopped, her mood shifted.
She rolled her eyes, lips thinning. “Of course she’s already here.”
I followed her gaze and saw Beatrice, standing near the steps of the jet, wearing a tight red pantsuit and enough smugness to drown in. Her arms were crossed, sunglasses perched on her perfectly done hair, and her eyes—though shielded—were locked on us the moment we pulled up.
Fuck.
I’d actually forgotten I had to take this damn trip with her.
The doors clicked open. Ariana stepped out first, heels clicking against the pavement like defiance in motion. I followed, slower, my bag in hand, dread churning in my gut.
Beatrice took a step forward, lips curled in that saccharine smile I’d come to loathe.
“You’re late,” she said flatly. “I’ve been waiting for quite some time.”
I didn’t miss the edge in her voice, the possessive tilt of her chin as her eyes slid from me to Ariana.
“I had more important things to deal with,” I replied, eyes locked on Ariana, not her. “Things that actually matter.”
Beatrice bristled.
But before she could reply, Ariana turned to me and rose on her toes.
Her lips pressed to mine—slow, soft, possessive. Not a goodbye. A warning.
Mine.
She pulled back, eyes gleaming, mouth curved in a quiet challenge. “Try not to strangle her mid-flight,” she murmured just loud enough for both of us to hear.
I couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at my lips. “No promises.”
I watched her walk back to the car, hips swaying with the kind of confidence that came from knowing she owned me.
Beatrice, of course, didn’t miss any of it.
“She treats you like some prize she’s already won,” Beatrice said as soon as the car pulled away.
I turned, slowly. “Maybe because she has.”
Her nostrils flared. “We need to go over the merger paperwork—”
“No,” I cut in. “What I need is to sit down and not hear your voice for the duration of this flight.”
She blinked. “Excuse me?”
“This is a private jet. Plenty of empty seats. Pick one that isn’t directly across from me.”
I walked up the steps without waiting for her response. The interior was as pristine and overindulgent as I remembered—white leather seats, mahogany paneling, champagne on ice. And yet it felt cold. Sterile.
I picked a seat near the back, slung my bag into the empty one next to me, and sank down with a sigh.
Beatrice climbed in behind me a moment later, her heels clicking like a threat. She hovered by the seat in front of me for a second, then caught the look I shot her.
Don’t.
She huffed and stalked down the aisle, dropping into a seat two rows away. Good.
The engines roared to life, and I leaned my head back, staring at the ceiling as we prepared for takeoff. My phone buzzed again.
A text.
ARIANA: “Don’t forget to breathe.”
My throat tightened.
I stared at those four words for a full minute before replying.
ME: “You’re the only thing that makes it easy.”
I didn’t expect a reply. Didn’t need one.
Just knowing she was still thinking of me was enough to get through this hell.
We took off minutes later, the jet climbing into the clouds like some gilded prison. I watched the ground fall away beneath us, watched the city become a patchwork of buildings and streets until it vanished altogether.
The moment we leveled out, Beatrice unbuckled and started toward me again.
I didn’t even look up. “Don’t.”
She stopped short. “Hardin, we need to talk. About what happened last night. You were angry, I get it, but—”
“You tried to seduce me.”
She flinched.
“You crossed a line,” I continued, voice cold, even. “And if it wasn’t for this contract, I wouldn’t be within ten feet of you.”
“It didn’t mean anything,” she snapped. “I thought maybe you just needed—”
“Nothing,” I said, my voice steel. “You better stop your one-sided illusion. Ariana is my future. You? You’re just trying to get in the way.”
Her face twisted. “You think she’s going to stick around forever? Girls like that don’t sign up for the long haul, Hardin. They leave.”
“She’s not like you,” I said quietly.
Silence stretched between us. Cold. Fractured. Unapologetic.
Eventually, Beatrice turned on her heel and retreated to her seat.
Good.
I pulled out my earbuds, drowning the silence in music that barely touched the noise in my head.
I missed her already.
Her voice.
Her laugh.
The way she always curled into me in her sleep, like her body trusted me even when her heart was guarded.
The thought of sleeping in some sterile Swiss suite without her beside me made my stomach churn.
But I’d do this. For the company. For her. Because the last thing I wanted was to give my mother an excuse to rip Ariana apart again.
I’d get through it.
Somehow.
And when I came back—when I finally got to hold her again—I’d make sure she knew. Not just that I loved her. But that no amount of distance or distraction could ever come between us.
Not Switzerland.
Not Beatrice.
Not anything.
I leaned back, closed my eyes, and let the hum of the engine carry me away.
But my mind?
It never left her.
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