Chapter 4: The Aerialist
Private jets were the ultimate privilege, reserved for the tiniest fraction of the world's population. And when the passenger was rich, young, and single, the service came with certain… expectations.
Scott had not yet bought his own plane, so he still used Trump Airlines' charter fleet. The "Palace in the Sky" Boeing 727 was everything the brochures promised: wide leather sofas, a full bedroom suite at the rear, and a crew trained to anticipate every desire.
He had barely settled onto the sofa when thirst hit. A small gesture was all it took.
The nearest flight attendant glided over and knelt gracefully beside him, skirt riding just high enough on sheer stockings to be deliberate.
"Sir?" Her voice was warm honey. "What can I get for you?"
Scott looked up. Blonde, blue-eyed, flawless features—exactly the polished, all-American look Trump demanded for his premium routes. Light makeup, perfect posture, and a figure that turned the simple act of kneeling into an invitation.
"Plain water, please."
"Of course, Mr. Rogers." She rose with a smile that promised more, then moved toward the galley with a sway that made the other two attendants exchange quick, envious glances.
Jennifer Brown knew exactly what she was doing.
In the galley she checked her reflection, freshened her lipstick, and adjusted the silk scarf at her throat so the lace edge of her bra showed just enough. She took a slow breath, squared her shoulders, and carried the glass back out.
"Here you are, sir." She bent low to offer the water, holding the glass a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Scott's fingers brushed hers. Then her fingertip traced a deliberate line across his palm.
He met her eyes and smiled. The name tag on her crisp white blouse read Jennifer Brown—common as they came in the 1970s, but right now it was the only name that mattered.
Her waist was tiny, her legs endless, and she carried herself with the quiet confidence of someone who knew she was the most beautiful woman on this plane. In person she outshone half the actresses Scott had met in Hollywood; the camera simply didn't do her justice.
Trump Airlines took no chances with its elite clients. Every attendant on the "Palace in the Sky" flights submitted fresh medical paperwork and signed iron-clad NDAs. Zero risk.
Scott took a sip of water, set the glass down, and rose. He walked toward the private bedroom at the rear of the cabin without looking back.
At the door he paused, glanced over his shoulder, and crooked a single finger.
Jennifer's eyes lit up. She felt the jealous stares of her colleagues like heat on her back, but she didn't hesitate. With a graceful sway she followed him inside.
The door clicked shut behind them.