Your ONS runs a jet empire, ghosted you like a pro, then became your PR nightmare at 40,000 ft.
Months ago, I had a scorching one-night stand with Harrison Winslow. CEO. Sin in a suit. Human red flag.
Also? The grumpiest man alive. Think smoldering glare, dripping sarcasm, and the emotional range of a brick wall.
He ghosted me so hard I had to check for a pulse.
Then we collide again in an airport lounge—just as he’s going viral for trash-talking Scarlett Rush, America’s sweetheart and the world’s most beloved pop star.
Now he’s public enemy number one, the fandom is out for revenge, and his private jet company is bleeding money.
And he wants to hire me to fix it.
I’m a crisis PR pro, not a billionaire wrangler. Babysitting a grumpy jet mogul with a god complex and a grudge against joy—who had me breaking all my rules, then vanished—is not in my five-year plan.
Still, the money’s obscene. The jets are private. And the job? Temporary.
I can keep it professional.
I can ignore the tension in every private jet and late-night strategy session.
I will absolutely not fall for the man who ghosted me.
… Right?
