Opportunities
Opportunities come for those who are willing to take the risk.
Opportunities are always everywhere.
But people? People are too damn busy, too wrapped up in their own problems to even notice them. Some grab them without a second thought, flipping off everything and everyone in the process, living their lives without a care. Others hesitate, trapped in their cozy little comfort zones, afraid to take a step. And then there are the overthinkers—the ones who pull out a spreadsheet, analyze every risk, calculate the financial repercussions, and, after much deliberation, decide to do nothing.
That was me.
Good old Vicky. Workaholic Vicky. The perfect employee. The Vicky who had to have everything meticulously planned, who wouldn’t so much as sneeze without first checking her calendar. The one who stayed late at the office, racking up overtime, making sure every project, every email, every damn report was flawless.
Yes, this good old Victoria Alva. Who had finally snapped.
Who had just said, “Screw it,” and bought a plane ticket to New York for the weekend. While lying to her boss about being sick.
But hey, it was cheap. Ninety-five bucks. A steal, really.
I took the opportunity, knowing full well what it might do to my budget, to my workload, to my so-called “responsible” reputation.
But I needed this.
God, I needed a break.
People love to preach about self-care, don’t they? “Take care of yourself,” they say. So, technically, I was. By flying to New York. To do… exactly what I do at home. Go to a bookstore, bury myself in novels, sip on overpriced coffee, and pretend the world doesn’t exist.
But at least I could say I did it in New York. The Big Apple.
So there I was, in the middle of February, walking through the airport terminal toward my gate, a small duffle bag slung over my shoulder, my electronics tucked neatly inside. The air smelled of burnt coffee, industrial cleaning supplies, and the faintest whiff of someone’s perfume as they rushed past me. From the massive glass windows, I could see my plane had just arrived, the jet bridge rolling into place as ground crew scurried around like worker bees, loading luggage and prepping for departure.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I froze.
I already knew who it was before I even looked.
Liam.
I exhaled sharply, biting my lip as I stared at his name on the screen.
Should I let him in on this little act of rebellion?
No. No, he was half the reason I was making this completely irrational decision in the first place. One of the reasons I needed a damn break.
Liam. The charming, easygoing guy I met at a work event. I liked him immediately. Maybe too much. Charismatic, flamboyant, the kind of person who lights up a room just by existing. Amber eyes, a sweet, disarming smile, a lean but toned frame, and wavy brown hair that somehow always looked effortlessly good. The second we started talking, we clicked—same humor, same love for books, same deep conversations about everything and nothing.
But there was one problem.
His ex.
A walking, talking, five-alarm dumpster fire.
Every time we got close, she would call. And as much as Liam claimed he was done, that he’d moved on, I knew better. Because every time, he’d go running back to help her. Like clockwork. And I’d be left there, stupidly hoping for something that would never happen.
My phone buzzed again. A message.
“Are you really sick?”
Yeah, Liam. I’m so sick I had to hop on a plane to New York to get better.
I ignored the text, shoving my phone back into my bag. Instead, I pulled out my book, flipping it open in an attempt to kill time. Through the terminal, I watched the flight crew walk past, heading toward the plane I’d soon be boarding.
Soon, I’d be in New York.
Breathing in its cold, city air. Wandering its chaotic, buzzing streets.
Best medicine for the sick.
It didn’t take long before I was neatly tucked into my seat on the plane. The cabin hummed with the usual low murmurs of passengers settling in, the occasional ding of an overhead compartment closing, and the soft rustling of flight attendants preparing for takeoff. Most people had already found their spots, buckling in, pulling out their neck pillows, or flipping through magazines they had no real intention of reading.
I sat four rows behind the wing, tucked into seat A. Window, of course. Always the window. It was a sacred choice, a childhood relic from the rare times I’d flown as a kid. Back when I was eleven, I used to battle my cousins for this very spot. Fought tooth and nail for it, really. But Dad had insisted. Told them all to let me have it. And I loved him for that.
I love my old man so much.
And he was the only one who knew about this little adventure of mine. Because if I hadn’t told him, half the damn police department would probably be out looking for me.
Like they always do when I decide to ‘run off.’
Perks of being the daughter of a cop. Now a Captain.
Have you ever had that eerie, prickling sensation? That undeniable feeling that someone is watching you? Not just glancing. Not just casually looking around. But really watching.
I felt it the moment I boarded the plane.
At first, I tried to shake it off, convincing myself I was being paranoid. Until two men walked in. Black suits, black sunglasses, and a presence so sharp it could slice through the air. They moved with intent, straight toward the man sitting next to me.
The man barely hesitated. At their silent command, he unbuckled his seatbelt and stood, adjusting his shirt before stepping aside with them. The three men exchanged hushed words just a few feet away from me, their conversation masked by the white noise of boarding announcements and passengers still shuffling to their seats.
And then, just like that, the man nodded. Smiled. Bright and effortless. As if they’d just told him he won a free vacation instead of whatever dark exchange had just occurred. He reached up, unloaded his suitcase from the overhead compartment, and—without a second glance—strode toward First Class.
And that’s when the feeling intensified.
Because the man who stepped onto the plane next?
He made me believe in God.
Tall. Broad. Muscular in a way that wasn’t just gym-earned but deeply ingrained. He exuded power—raw, unwavering, unquestionable authority. His presence sucked the air out of the cabin. Women gasped, a few even letting out barely contained squeals as he adjusted the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt, rolling them up just enough to reveal tanned, corded forearms.
He was the embodiment of wealth and dominance, the kind of man whose very existence made you feel like you needed to check your reflection, fix your hair, and reevaluate your entire life.
But what really undid me?
His eyes.
Violet.
Striking, hypnotic—like twilight frozen in irises, glowing with something unreadable but deeply, unsettlingly intense.
And they were locked onto me.
A chill ran down my spine.
I darted a glance around, because surely, surely, this was a mistake. There was no logical reason for a man like that to be staring at me of all people. Maybe someone behind me? Maybe—
No.
When I looked back, he was still looking at me.
And worse, he was smirking.
I felt trapped. Completely and utterly caught in invisible shackles. My throat tightened, my body stiff as my amygdala went into full-blown overdrive, screaming at me to either fight or flee, but I could do neither.
Then he moved.
Right toward me.
Oh, God.
I held my breath as he approached, his walk smooth, effortless, radiating a confidence that most people had to fake. Each step brought that intoxicating scent closer—warm, rich cinnamon, spiced and dark, something both inviting and dangerously addictive.
He stopped right in front of my row.
His mouth curled into a slow, deliberate smile.
“May I?”
His voice was deep. Powerful. The kind of voice that could make a woman pregnant just by speaking alone.
Somewhere in the cabin, I swear I heard a woman moan.
I swallowed, hard. “N-not at all,” I croaked, my voice failing me. Get a fucking grip, Victoria.
He chuckled—low, smooth, knowing—and then slid into the seat beside me.
The space between us vanished.
His scent flooded my air.
I had to physically restrain myself from leaning in, from pressing my face into his shoulder like some kind of lunatic just to see if he really smelled as good up close as he did from a foot away.
And his shirt. Oh, his damn shirt.
Perfectly crisp white, clinging to his frame just enough to show off the definition of his muscles, the fabric stretching deliciously over his broad chest. And the way it bunched slightly as he settled in, the way his arms flexed as he adjusted, leading my eyes downward, dangerously downward—
What the hell, Victoria?!
Was I really this intimacy-starved that I was practically undressing a total stranger with my eyes?
Opportunities.
I mean… when do you ever get the chance to sit next to a man like this? A literal dream of a man? When life hands you a visual masterpiece, it would be a crime not to appreciate it.
If Cha Eun Woo himself walked onto this flight, I’d be soaking up every glorious second of his existence, wouldn’t I? Right?
This was just another opportunity life was handing me.
An opportunity I might not survive.
Because if this man started talking to me? If he so much as smiled in my direction again? I was going to have to excuse myself to the airplane bathroom. Multiple times.
The flight attendants began their safety demonstration. I barely processed a word. The plane taxied onto the runway, the subtle vibration of movement coursing through the cabin as we prepared for takeoff.
My book sat abandoned in my lap, my fingers gripping the armrest, eyes squeezed shut, trying to focus on anything but the turbulence rolling under us.
Then I felt it.
A soft, warm touch against my knuckles.
I gasped.
It was nothing like I had ever felt before—his touch was electric, sending warmth flooding up my arm, spreading across my skin in tingling waves. It was intoxicating, spellbinding, every nerve in my body responding like he had some unseen claim over me.
For a brief moment, I forgot I was on a plane.
Forgot we were taking off.
Forgot everything but that touch.
Slowly, hesitantly, I turned my head.
And those violet eyes were staring right back at me.
Hungry.
No one had ever looked at me like that before.
Like a starving man ready to devour the finest meal of his life.
His lips parted, and in a voice so low it barely registered above the roar of the engines, he murmured, “Shh… You’ll be safe.”
Oh.
Oh, I was in trouble.
