PAUL BISHOP
The jet was obscene.
I’ve seen military transports, flown in battered puddle-jumpers with duct-taped windows, even hitched a ride in a billionaire’s Gulfstream once during a job in Dubai—but this? This was on a whole different level.
Polished white leather seats. Gold trim. An in-flight espresso machine manned by someone named Alain who wore gloves and called Leila “Miss Dahan” like she was literal royalty. Which, to be fair, wasn’t that far off.
She sat across from me in cream slacks and a matching blouse, looking out the window like she hadn’t just hijacked my weekend and restructured my entire understanding of casual wealth. The morning sunlight poured through the glass and caught in her hair, painting her in soft golds and shadows.
She didn’t talk much after takeoff.
Neither did I.
It was quiet—until Alain brought breakfast. Something with truffle shavings and edible flowers. I stared at it.
“Are you going to eat that?” Leila asked, already buttering something flaky and French.
“I’m still trying to figure out if it’s food or performance art.”
She smirked. “Eat. You’ll need your strength.”
“For what?” I asked, taking a bite.
“Smile practice. Subtle hand-holding. Controlled eye contact.”
I washed it down with espresso and nodded seriously. “I’ve trained for worse.”
We landed several hours later on a private airstrip just outside Saint-Rapha?l.
The heat hit us like a silk-wrapped slap—not oppressive, but rich. The kind of warmth that made everything feel indulgent. Even the breeze smelled expensive. Like salt, jasmine, and old money.
Two black Bentleys waited on the tarmac with men in dark expensive suits. It was almost comical. Honestly, it's no wonder that normal people hate rich people. Leila’s assistant met us at the bottom of the steps. Mid-thirties, sleek black dress, clipboard, earpiece. She nodded once at me—professional, not impressed—and handed Leila a phone and a stack of event folders.
We slid into the backseat. I leaned against the buttery leather and took it all in.
The drive from the airstrip to the villa was pure fantasy. Coastal cliffs. Winding roads edged with cypress and bougainvillea. Villas stacked on hillsides like ancient temples. I saw a yacht the size of a football field moored offshore. Seagulls looked smug. Even the sun was showing off.
But it was the villa that really said everything I needed to know about Leila’s family.
It wasn’t a house. It was a compound.
White stone. Red tile roofs. Grand arched entrances and towering palm trees lining the main drive. The entire estate was set into the hillside with a view of the sea so pristine it looked painted.
Servants moved like clockwork—gardeners trimming hedges with lasers (probably), staff in white moving between outbuildings, and drivers unloading luggage from half a dozen other luxury vehicles. The main building stood three stories tall, wrapped in marble balconies and ivy-draped archways. Statues. Fountains. A reflecting pool that had no business reflecting that perfectly.
And yet, for all its grandeur…
The place was a security nightmare.
I scanned instinctively—old habits die hard.
The main gate was decorative, not reinforced. Surveillance cameras were minimal, and the few I spotted were positioned for show, not coverage. There were six entry points I could count from the front drive alone, not including what had to be an underground service tunnel—because these places always had one.
The staff was polite. Too polite. That meant they were paid well enough to ignore everything but their narrow task. Good for appearances. Bad for actual protection.
I leaned over to Leila.
“Your family’s place has more security holes than a golf course.”
She didn’t look at me. “You planning something?”
“Not today.”
She glanced sideways. “Noted.”
The car pulled up beneath the grand front portico where a woman in a pastel wrap dress and ice-blonde chignon waited with a glass of champagne and a gaze that could freeze fire.
Leila’s mother.
I recognized her from magazines that Leila showed me on the flight. A woman who donated to save endangered birds in the morning and lobbied oil magnates by lunch.
She took one look at me, cataloged me in half a heartbeat, and smiled like she was tasting something unfamiliar.
“Darling,” she said, kissing both of Leila’s cheeks. “You look exquisite.”
“Thank you, Mother. This is Paul.”
Her gaze flicked to me. “The one from Florence?”
I smiled. Gave her the most practiced, charming nod I could fake without gagging.
She didn’t extend her hand. Just gave a faint, cool smile and turned back toward the villa, expecting us to follow.
We did.
Inside was exactly what I expected—cool marble floors, vaulted ceilings, fresh-cut flowers in antique urns, and original art that probably had names like Untitled 3 and Girl With Fire in Her Eyes. A butler escorted us up the grand staircase to our “wing.”
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Not a room.
A wing.
We moved to the first set of double doors which opened to a suite the size of my entire apartment floor. One massive bedroom connected to a sitting area, private terrace with an ocean view, massive bathroom with a tub that could drown a small band.
And mind you this is just the first set of doors, there were three more sets.
I took one step inside and muttered, “This is ridiculous.”
Leila tossed her sunglasses on a velvet chaise. “You haven’t even seen the Roman style bath house and steam room.”
“You have a Roman style bath house and steam room?”
“And a cave complex specifically for wine.”
“Wow. Your family’s not looking to adopt are they? With all that I could almost forget the security problems your place has.”
She moved to the window and looked out over the hills. A yacht cut a clean white line across the sea. “What are you trying to say?”
“I’ve seen places like this,” I said, crossing the room. “They look solid, safe. But they’re too used to being untouchable. Makes them sloppy.”
Leila looked at me then, and there was something in her expression. Not fear. Not worry. But maybe... relief.
Like she’d picked the right kind of trouble after all.
She gave me a coy smile. “Come on, come and meet the piranhas that are my family.”
They gathered on the terrace like they were posing for a perfume ad. The Dahan family didn’t do “casual.”
Even their lounging felt curated, glasses of rosé, coordinated linen, and the kind of body language that said: We own the continent, and also, maybe you. Leila led me out like a general escorting a VIP who was holding a grenade.
How's that for imagery?
“Everyone,” she said, calm as ever, “this is Paul. My boyfriend.”
Four heads turned.
Four reactions.
The first came from the older sister, Selene. I recognized her from her picture Leila showed me. Middle height. Curvy and elegant, and but visibly exhausted in a sort of downplayed way. She looked me up and down once, her eyes pausing just long enough to register: *Not another boring trust fund boy.* A flicker of something almost like respect crossed her face. Or curiosity. I couldn't tell.
Beside her stood what I could only assume was her husband based on the way that he touched her arm—a bloated man in a white linen shirt with chest hair peeking out. He smiled like he was already plotting how to find me on LinkedIn and make me feel small.
“Ah, so this is the boyfriend,” he said, his voice slick. “Quite the departure from your usual type, Leila. I thought you were attracted to competence. You really need to stop drafting these pretty boys.”
Leila smiled without teeth. “Always a pleasure my dearest brother-in-law.”
The younger sister was next. Amira Dahan. Twenty-one, barefoot, sipping from a mason jar of something green, wearing a sundress that screamed *I studied abroad and I vote with my heart.* She barely looked up when we walked in—just muttered something about attachment being a construct.
Then she saw me.
And in real time, I watched her entire personality glitch.
The granola aura evaporated. She blinked, straightened her posture, and—somehow—*her hair got shinier*. She tucked a lock behind her ear, crossed one leg over the other like she suddenly remembered how legs worked, and said in a voice two octaves lower, “Hi. I’m Amira.”
Leila didn’t even look at her. Just said flatly, “She’s a philosophy major.”
“I’m minoring in applied neuroscience now,” Amira added, smiling at me like I was the TA she planned to seduce for extra credit.
“Of course you are,” I said.
Then the *brother* emerged—headphones around his neck, wearing a hoodie that had seen better years and pajama pants with cartoon characters on them. His hair was messy, his eyes tired, and his entire vibe said: *I’ve been up all night building a custom PC and drinking espresso like it’s a survival strategy.*
“Yo,” he said, nodding at me. “You play Overwatch?”
“Obviously. It has been a bit for me. Not in love with the changes to the 5 person format,” I said.
They stopped and looked at me. Like REALLY looked at me. The brother grinned, then glanced at Leila. “This is your boyfriend?”
“Why do you sound surprised?” she asked, one brow raised.
He shrugged. “He plays Overwatch. Aren’t things like that a waste of time? Not your normal type. Also I think this one might be too hot for you.”
Leila blinked.
I choked.
The older sister’s husband let out a dismissive snort. “Ah, youth. No filter.”
The younger brother ignored him completely, already tapping something into his phone. “Do you have a Steam ID? Or do you play on console?”
“Please. Keyboard all the way. But I’ve been around the Xbox as well. I’ll send it to you,” I said, because he was the first one who hadn’t looked at me like I was either a threat or a curiosity.
“Cool. Oh—there’s gonna be a girl here tomorrow night. Don’t say anything weird. Her name’s Zoey. If anyone embarrasses me, I will unplug the Wi-Fi.”
“Come on now dude. Let's not get crazy. We can talk about this,” I said, nodding solemnly.
The kid snorted and tried not to laugh.
Leila stepped forward, gracefully ending the introductions. “We’re going to unpack. Dinner’s at eight?”
Her mother, who had watched the entire interaction in silence from the edge of the terrace, finally spoke.
“Yes. Wear something tasteful.”
Her eyes met mine again.
“Both of you.”
Then she turned and walked back inside, as if she hadn’t just delivered a command disguised as advice.
As we left the terrace, Leila leaned in.
“Welcome to the jungle.”
“Does that make you Tarzan and me Jane?”
“No,” she said, without missing a beat. “I’m the one holding the rifle.”
“I am not sure that makes any sense.”
After the introductions, Leila led us upstairs, and for a while, things were quiet. Too quiet.
Without being asked, I walked into another one of the rooms to find the same massive rooms through another set of double doors. I unpacked, changed, and found a shady spot on the balcony where I could watch the horizon roll down into the sea. The kind of view that made people post inspirational quotes and pretend they weren’t dying inside.
Then I heard footsteps.
Clicking.
Not sandals. Not slippers.
The distinct click of heels.
I turned just enough to catch the moment Amira re-entered the scene.
And what a moment.
Gone was the thrift-store sundress and bare feet. Now she wore a cropped silk top and high-waisted trousers that looked both effortless and suspiciously expensive. Her hair was pulled back into a slick ponytail, and her earrings glittered with that *I don’t care, but I actually really care* vibe.
She walked past me, pretending not to notice I was there—but her posture said otherwise. Shoulders back. Neck long. A sway in the hips that could start a war.
I smirked.
“Big date?” I asked without looking up.
“No,” she said breezily, not breaking stride. “Just remembered I brought real clothes.”
“Must be fate.”
She paused just before the hallway ended and gave me a sideways look. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”
“Only to people who underestimate me.”
She blinked. Then smiled—*genuinely*, this time. “Noted.”
And she disappeared around the corner.
