The Last Heiress

Chapter 5 - Trapped With A Billionaire

Chapter 5

When I woke up, the lights of Manna City appeared under us like a glittering spiderweb. We had flown around the globe in the dark of night, and when I finally saw the light again, it wasn't the sunlight I so missed. The artificial light leaked through the round windows of our plane, and I knew it was around mid-afternoon back in Beijing.

I searched for my phone, but I remembered that Mr. Pu had taken it from me before I boarded the plane. He said authorities were tracking my phone, and I would have a new phone once I landed.

I had attributed it to my father's usual paranoia, but something felt wrong this time. There was something very wrong about this particular flight from home. Even after I woke up and loudly cleared my throat, signaling that I was awake, not a single stewardess, hospitality officer, or security guard came to check on me in the passenger cabin. As I got out of my seat to explore, I realized I was the only person on this plane. There wasn't a single person here to look after me. No one except the pilots behind a locked door. Did they even need humans to fly a plane these days?

"I demand to speak to someone!" I hollered, but no one answered. I didn't have much time to complain or throw one of my Louboutins at the cockpit. My father was a cautious man but wasn't this a bit extreme, even for him? Would he fly me across the globe without a single employee, chaperone, or friend to guide me?

The plane had already started our descent. The aircraft landed in Manna City without the slightest blip. I supposed if anyone was piloting it, I should thank them for their kindness in smuggling me to my intended destination. God knows, there's probably a price on the daughter of Charles Liang somewhere. Perhaps, I should even tip them so they don't immediately rat me out once they'd dropped me off.

But, no one came out of the cockpit. Instead, I heard a robotic voice announce overhead that the aircraft had come to a stop and it was safe to exit.

I gathered my things, which consisted only of my empty purse, a spare valise that I threw a change of clothes into, and my father's beat-up briefcase. I had never traveled this lightly before. Despite my lack of luggage, I couldn't believe I was carrying my things off my father's private jet. The plug door depressurized as I came up to it. It automatically opened downward, and I was grateful this was all automated because I didn't have the slightest idea what buttons to push. I expected the stairs to lead me into a deserted runway like the wasteland I had entered from back home.

I blinked in disbelief. No, just beyond the door, there was a multitude of twinkling lights. The local time here was around 5 a.m. There was even a gaggle of early morning passengers from a nearby commercial flight who were gawking at my plane. Whatever threat had pursued me back home must finally be a thing of the past here. I just wished my father had told me exactly what that threat was.

Now, with no cell phone, no computer, or any form of communication to guide me, what was I to do? Walk to my grandmother's apartment in Manna City? I didn't even have my credit cards. They were burnt to a crisp back in Fengxian. I truly hoped Mr. Pu wasn't joking when he told me the briefcase contained extra spending money. As I was right then with my empty purse, armed only with a pack of tissues and a make-up pouch, I didn't even have the means to call a cab.

No sooner had I taken a single shaky step outside the plane, I heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

"You, idiot! Don't you see her? I'll do it myself!"

For a second, the hairs on my neck pricked up in alarm. Had my father's enemies found me? Then, a tall man jumped up onto the steps of my father's plane. His weight on the retractable steps almost caused me to lose my footing. In the iridescent light of the airport, I only caught a mop of black hair and a pair of solid shoulders in a well-tailored jacket. He didn't shoot me or seize me by the waist. Instead, he carried my luggage in the most impractical way possible. He threw the entire valise over his broad shoulder as though it were a wild animal in need of restraining. He didn't even realize there was a handle at the top to hold it by. My displeasure of lousy service immediately displaced my terror at having been found.

I opened my mouth to hurl an insult at him for mishandling my luggage, and then I realized precisely why my words were in vain. He wasn't someone my father paid to come here to serve me. He was showing off. The man —or should I say boy — leaped off the last two steps of my private plane and raised one outstretched hand to help me down the rest of the way. The devilish smirk on his face told me he was congratulating himself on a perfectly executed romantic gesture.

"It's you!" What was his name again? I decided in my precarious situation that "asshole" wasn't the wisest nickname to reflexively spat at him.

"Of course it's me!"

"I—I was expecting my own people."

He laughed and handed my luggage to his chauffeur once he saw that I wasn't about to shower him with compliments or gratitude.

"Do you remember me, Angela?" He asked as I shakily clasped my hands around the rails of the plane. I didn't know what this meant. My knees felt like they had turned to rubber, and my lips tingled with numbness. My father sent a stranger to pick me up from the airport.

Yes, I met this boy years ago, during one of my trips with my father to Hong Kong. But, I have met many boys over the years, and their faces and names were never very important. My father had secretaries who were paid to keep track of such things for me.

Yet here this boy was, acting as though I should know his name. I bit my lip in annoyance. How could my father trap me in such an awkward situation? How much trouble was my family in, really, that we needed the help of these people?

"Of . . . of course I remember, " I continue to stutter. So what if I told a complete lie? I didn't remember. I did remember how annoyed I was about the way he pronounced my name back then, as though he was claiming ownership over it. It was as though he thought the way he uttered each syllable with that stupid smirk over his cocky lips would make me weak in the knees. What did I jokingly call him again?

Oh, yes.

The little rooster who loved to strut around, making loud noises that meant nothing.

"Then say it. You forgot, didn't you? You sure know how to break a man's heart," the black-haired boy joked as he waved his chauffeur's offer of assistance away. He personally fumbled around in the dark to open up the backseat of his driver's car for me. He was smiling at me again, in that ridiculous way, as though he expected me to faint with gratitude for such a manly gesture.

He was right about one thing, I couldn't remember his name, but I could see he was one of those kids who had never had to open a car door for himself in his entire life.

I didn't know whether to be horrified that I was being forced into the backseat with him or be relieved that there was someone left on this planet who knew how to pay his respects to Charles Liang's daughter. As dense as this boy was, he saw the hesitation written all over my face. Instead of withdrawing, he immediately puffed up his broad chest and seemed to tower over me as though he was trying to get over his wounded pride by physically dominating the space between us. I fell back a step. My pained expression betrayed my thoughts of running. He laughed again.

"Don't worry, Angela, I have no plans to propose marriage again." Finally, he seemed to give up on showering me with attention and back off. He was lucky that he was handsome. When he smiled, it was easy to forget the shards of malice that glimmered behind his dark eyes. I was starting to remember now. He was the boy from Manna City.

When I met him years ago, he was wearing a blue jacket, the color of the waters off the coast of Zanzibar. I wasn't afraid of him then, and I wasn't afraid now. He had been sweating even as we stood on an air-conditioned balcony looking over the Tai Po Waterfront Park. I remembered the rays of the sun reflecting against the crystal glassware, the cadence of his voice, and the taste of the green melon liqueur a kindly bartender had sneaked into my soda.

But I didn't remember this boy's name.

It didn't seem important at the time.

"Ryan," I finally put together as I yanked the car door shut behind me. I could see that the chauffeur and the bodyguard sitting in the front seat were trying to stifle a laugh at our exchange. They had never seen their little boss so disrespected. "Ralph?"

"Closer the first time," he chuckled. "Orion. Orion Oslen."