Chapter 27: The Altitude Adjustment
The jet’s engines were a steady, muted roar, a white noise that filled the spaces between their words. Outside the oval window, the world was a gradient of deep blue and bruised purple, the last embers of sunset smeared along the horizon. Inside, the cabin felt like a pressurized vault of amber light and polished mahogany.
Jim stared at the three women seated across from him.
They were variations on a theme: blonde. The one on the left was champagne blonde, hair in a messy, artful bun, wearing a cashmere tracksuit that probably cost more than a sedan. She sipped Dom Pérignon from a flute, her eyes assessing him over the rim. The middle one was platinum, hair so pale it was almost silver, cut in a sharp bob. She wore a simple black dress, her posture unnervingly still, her gaze fixed on a point just past his shoulder. The one on the right was honey blonde, curls spilling over her shoulders, a sundress suggesting she’d come straight from the beach. She was the only one smiling, a wide, vacant, reassuring smile.
Susan had produced them. A “curated selection,” she’d called it, an hour before wheels-up from Santa Monica. A surprise to take his mind off Caron’s gallery ambush.
His mind, however, was a stuck record. An audit. An assessment. Caron’s words, delivered with that serene, surgical smile, kept replaying. The cocaine he’d done in the airport lounge buzzed impotently against the bedrock of her threat. He took a long pull from his flask, the bourbon doing little more than washing the taste of bile from his mouth.
“You’re brooding,” Susan said, sliding into the seat next to him. She had changed into a silk slip dress, the fabric clinging to her curves. She smelled of her signature perfume and something sharper, chemically clean. “Stop it. You won. You walked in there with her on your arm and you showed Caron the game has changed. Now,” she gestured with her chin toward the blondes, “it’s time to play.”
“I don’t know their names,” Jim said, his voice flat.
“You don’t need their names yet,” Susan purred, taking his flask from his hand and sipping from it. She made a face. “This is swill. We have proper Glencadam on board.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper the women couldn’t hear over the engine hum. “The brunette is for conversation. The platinum is for obedience. The bubbly one is for… uncomplicated fun. Your instruction manual. Choose your starting difficulty.”
Jim looked at them again. The champagne blonde met his eyes, a flicker of challenge there. The platinum statue remained immobile. The honey blonde’s smile widened, as if pleased to be noticed.
He felt nothing. Just a hollow, weary anger. Caron had poisoned the well. The idea of a new submissive, a new toy, felt like a distraction, a shiny object waved in front of him to keep him from the real problem: his wife still held the deed to his life.
“This was a mistake,” he muttered.
Susan’s green eyes hardened. “The only mistake is letting her get inside your head. She wants you rattled. She wants you impotent. This,” she gestured around the lush cabin, “is your reality. Not her legal paperwork.” She pulled a small, ornate silver box from the side pocket of her seat. Flipping it open, she revealed a gram of fine, glittering cocaine and a tiny spoon. She laid out two brisk lines on the polished lid.
The platinum blonde’s eyes tracked the movement, then returned to their fixed point. The other two pretended not to notice.
Susan rolled a hundred-dollar bill, snorted a line with a sharp, efficient inhale, and handed the bill to Jim. “Fix your head,” she commanded.
The familiarity of the ritual was its own comfort. He bent, blocked one nostril, and inhaled. The hit was instant and clarifying, like a window shoved open in a stuffy room. The hollow feeling evaporated, replaced by a sharp, jagged focus. The jet’s interior seemed brighter, the details sharper. He could see the individual threads in the honey blonde’s dress, the tiny flaw in the champagne blonde’s manicure.
Susan watched him, a slow smile spreading on her lips as she saw the change in his posture, the narrowing of his eyes. She took his face in her hands, her thumbs stroking his temples. Her fingers smelled of oxy, a sweet, medicinal scent clinging to her skin.
“There he is,” she whispered. She shifted, moving with a sudden, fluid grace to straddle his lap in the wide leather seat. The silk of her dress slid against his trousers. She placed her oxy-soft hands on his shoulders, her face close to his. “Now,” she breathed, her voice a low vibration he felt in his chest. “Tell me which one of your new subs you want broken first.”
Turbulence hit without warning.
The jet dropped, a sickening lurch that slammed them down into their seats. The champagne flute flew from the blonde’s hand, shattering against the mahogany paneling. The honey blonde gasped, her vacant smile replaced by genuine fear. The platinum blonde’s hand shot out, bracing against the wall, her composure finally cracking for a single, startled second.
Susan, straddling Jim, was thrown forward. She grabbed the back of his seat, her body pressing into his. The violent shaking rattled the bottles at the bar, made the overhead bins creak. Through the window, the twilight sky churned.
Jim’s hands instinctively went to Susan’s hips, holding her steady. Her eyes were wide, not with fear, but with a wild, adrenalized excitement. She laughed, a sharp, gusty sound lost in the noise. The chaos seemed to electrify her.
As the plane bucked again, she kept her balance on his lap, leaning in until her lips were against his ear. Her teeth grazed his lobe, a sharp, playful bite. “Which one, Jim?” she demanded, her voice cutting through the roar. “While the world tries to shake us apart. Tell me.”
The jet steadied, ascending back into smooth air. The captain’s voice came on, calm, apologizing for the unexpected clear-air turbulence. The honey blonde laughed nervously, beginning to pick up shards of crystal. The champagne blonde wiped champagne from her sleeve, her expression irritated. The platinum blonde had returned to her statue pose, but a faint tremor remained in her braced hand.
In the sudden quiet, Jim’s senses were overloaded. The chemical clarity from the coke, the warm weight of Susan on him, the scent of her, the lingering fear-sweat from the blondes, the hard, bright eyes of the woman in his lap waiting for an answer.
He looked past Susan, at the three of them. The compliant one was already broken, just in a different way. The challenging one… he saw Caron in her assessing gaze. He didn’t want another challenge. Not tonight.
He nodded toward the honey blonde, who was now awkwardly holding a handful of glass, her sunny demeanor clouded by confusion.
“Her,” Jim said, his voice rough. “The uncomplicated one.”
Susan’s smile was a slash of victory. She kissed him, hard and brief, then slid off his lap. She smoothed her dress and walked over to the honey blonde, whose name he still didn’t know.
“Leave that,” Susan said, gesturing at the glass. “Sit.”
The blonde obeyed, perching on the edge of a seat, her curls trembling slightly. Susan stood over her, a predator examining easy prey. She looked back at Jim. “Do you want to watch? Or would you prefer the bedroom? I can have her ready for you in five minutes.”
The platinum blonde’s eyes flicked toward them, then away. The champagne blonde took a defiantly large sip from a new flute of champagne, her earlier challenge now curdling into something like disdain.
Jim stood up. The drugs and the bourbon made the cabin tilt for a second, then right itself. He looked at the honey blonde’s wide, frightened, eager-to-please eyes. He thought of Megan’s calm, calculating surrender on the penthouse floor. That had meant something. This felt like ordering room service.
“I’ll be in the bedroom,” he said, turning away. He needed to be away from their watching eyes. He needed the silence.
As he walked toward the rear of the jet, he heard Susan’s voice, low and instructional. “Stand up. Take off the dress. Slowly. Let’s see what we’re working with.”
He didn’t look back. He entered the small, opulent bedroom, closing the door on the scene. The sound of the engines was louder here, a deep-throated hum. He sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. The coke was peaking, a brittle, frenetic energy with nowhere to go. Caron’s face swam before him, smiling that icy smile. An audit.
He opened the bedside drawer. A fresh gram, a razor, a mirror. Tools of the trade. He laid out a line, thicker this time. He needed to burn this feeling out, this impotent rage. He snorted it, the burn a welcome pain.
There was a soft knock. Before he could answer, the door opened. It was the champagne blonde, the one in the cashmere tracksuit. She leaned against the doorframe, holding two glasses of amber liquid.
“Susan sent this,” she said, her voice husky. “Said you might prefer a different kind of conversation.”
Jim looked at her. The challenge was back in her eyes, mixed now with a shrewd curiosity. She wasn’t following Susan’s script.
“Did she.”
“She’s busy with… orientation,” the blonde said, a slight smirk on her lips. She stepped inside, closing the door with her hip. She handed him a glass. “I’m Sloane, by the way. Since no one bothered to introduce us.”
He took the glass. “Jim.”
“I know.” She took a sip, watching him. “I saw you at the gallery last night. With your… acquisition. And your wife. That was some show.”
Jim went very still. The gallery. She’d been there. Watching.
Sloane saw the shift in him. Her smirk deepened. “Relax. I’m not a spy. I’m a collector. Modern art. I was there for the screaming faces. But I couldn’t look away from the live drama in the middle of the room.” She took another step closer. “Your wife is a formidable woman. The way she handled that… it was like watching a surgeon. Cold. Precise.”
“What do you want?” Jim asked, his voice low.
“I want to know which one of you is going to win,” Sloane said simply. “It’s the most interesting piece of performance art I’ve seen in years. And I have a proposition. But not for right now.” She finished her drink and set the glass down. “Susan thinks I’m here for the usual reasons. I’m not. I’m here because a war between giants is bad for business, and I have business with both of you. Think about it.”
She turned and left, leaving the scent of her expensive perfume and a void of bewildering questions in her wake.
Jim stared at the closed door, the new cocaine screaming through his system. The game had just gotten another player. One who’d been watching from the wings.
From the main cabin, he heard a soft, muffled cry, followed by Susan’s low, approving murmur. The “uncomplicated fun” was underway.
He threw back the whiskey, the alcohol doing nothing to dilute the chemical fire in his blood or the cold knot of understanding in his gut. There were no clean breaks. No simple distractions. Only new layers of the same endless, gilded maze. And he was standing in the center, waiting for the next turn.
And he was standing in the center, waiting for the next turn.
The whiskey glass was cold in his hand. Sloane’s perfume still hung in the air, a cloying cloud of jasmine and ambition. From the main cabin, a low, rhythmic thump against the hull echoed the jet’s engines. Muffled giggles. Susan’s voice, a blurred murmur of command. The “uncomplicated fun” was proceeding as scripted.
It felt hollow. A tasteless performance. He saw the honey blonde’s fake smile, her performative fear. He remembered the cold, polished concrete of Susan’s penthouse floor. The silence of Megan’s surrender. That had weight. This was just noise.
He opened the bedroom door. The scene was exactly as he’d pictured it. The honey blonde was on her knees by the large sofa, her sundress a puddle around her. Susan stood over her, one hand tangled in her curls, guiding her head. The other two women watched. The platinum blonde observed with detached, clinical interest. Sloane had returned to her seat, sipping her drink, her expression unreadable.
“Enough,” Jim said. His voice cut through the cabin’s muffled sounds.
Susan turned, her eyes glazed with oxy and vicarious pleasure. “Jim? She’s just getting started.”
“I said enough.” He walked forward, his steps heavy on the carpet. He looked down at the honey blonde. Tears streaked her mascara. Her lower lip trembled. It was a perfect picture of subservience, and it bored him to his core. “Get up. Go clean yourself up.”
The blonde scrambled back, confusion and relief flooding her features. She grabbed her dress and hurried toward the bathroom, clutching the fabric to her chest.
Susan’s face tightened. “What the hell is your problem?”
“My problem is this is a fucking pantomime.” He swept his hand toward the two remaining women. “The compliant one. The challenging one. The uncomplicated one. You’re treating them like menu items. This isn’t what I wanted.”
“You picked her!” Susan shot back, her voice rising.
“I picked wrong.” He turned to face the platinum blonde and Sloane. “You’re both dismissed. There’s a car waiting at the hangar. It’ll take you wherever you want to go.”
The platinum blonde stood without a word, collected her small bag, and moved toward the front of the cabin without looking back. Sloane finished her drink, set the glass down precisely, and offered Jim a small, knowing nod. “My card,” she said, placing a simple white rectangle on the bar. “For when you’re done fighting the last war and want to discuss the next one.” Then she followed the other woman out.
The cabin was suddenly, brutally quiet. Only the engine’s hum remained.
Susan stared at him, her cheeks flushed. “You humiliated me.”
“You humiliate yourself,” Jim said, his voice low and weary. “You think this is helping? This circus? Caron is conducting an audit of my life, and you’re serving up clown acts.”
“I’m trying to give you what you asked for!” she yelled, her composure shattering. “You wanted variety. You wanted submission. I provided.”
“You provided product.” He stepped closer, looming over her. “You procured. Like you were ordering fucking catering. It’s empty. It’s a transaction.” The coke was sharpening his frustration into a clear, cold point. “I don’t want a transaction.”
“Then what do you want, Jim?” she spat, her green eyes blazing. “You want the fairy tale? You want the one who gets you, who understands your profound fucking soul? You had that. For thirty years. And you blew it up because you wanted something real.” She laughed, a harsh, broken sound. “This is real. This is the market. This is what’s on offer.”
He looked at her, this beautiful, broken woman who had been his accomplice and his anchor. He saw the ghost of the escort who bought an MBA, the shrewd friend of his wife, the addict chasing a feeling. He saw a mirror.
“I want the one who knelt on the floor without being told,” he said, the words leaving him with a strange finality. “The one who saw the trap and walked into it anyway because she understood the game better than I did. The one who isn’t here for a paycheck or a story or a fucking art collection.”
Susan’s anger drained away, replaced by a dawning, cold understanding. Her shoulders slumped. “Megan.”
He didn’t confirm it. He didn’t need to.
“You’re an idiot,” she whispered, but the fire was gone from it. It was just a statement of fact. “She’s an asset. A trained asset. Her submission is a feature, not a choice. It’s what Varga built.”
“Maybe,” Jim said, turning to look out the window at the endless, dark ocean. “But it felt like a choice. In that moment, it felt like the only real thing left.”
He felt, rather than saw, Susan sink onto the sofa behind him. The fight was out of her. “So what now? You call her? Summon her? She’s probably with another client right now. That’s what she is, Jim. A very expensive, very well-programmed companion.”
“I know what she is,” he said, still watching the void outside. “But Caron sees it too. That’s why the clause exists. She doesn’t want a car. She wants the one weapon she thinks can unbalance me.” He turned back to face Susan. “And she’s right.”
Susan looked up at him, her expression ancient and tired. “You’re in love with the idea of her. It’s a pathology. You finally get free and you immediately walk into another cage.”
“It’s not a cage,” he said, though he wasn’t sure he believed it. “It’s a different kind of game. And for the first time, I think I know the rules.” He picked up his flask from the bar. “Land this plane. Send the other girl home. I’m going back to Malibu.”
“To do what?”
He took a long drink, the bourbon failing to warm the cold certainty settling in his gut. “To prepare for the appraisal.”
He walked to the cockpit door, opened it, and spoke to the pilot. “Change of plan. Take us back.” Then he returned to the bedroom, closing the door on Susan and the empty, perfumed cabin.
Alone, he pulled out his phone. He stared at the black screen. Megan’s contact was a simple, anonymous ten-digit number, saved under ‘M.’ No last name. No emoji. Just a spare, functional entry.
His thumb hovered over it. He imagined her in some other penthouse, with some other wealthy ghost, performing some other version of obedience. The thought was a physical ache, a sharp twist beneath his ribs. It was jealousy, pure and simple, but it was also something darker: a need to possess what others might also own.
He didn’t call. He typed a text, the letters stark on the screen.
The appraisal is soon. Be ready.
He sent it. The message was delivered. He waited, the phone a lead weight in his hand.
A minute passed. Then two. The three blinking dots appeared. They pulsed, then disappeared. They appeared again. She was typing, deleting, thinking.
His breath felt tight in his chest.
The reply came through, simple and devastating.
I am always ready.
He put the phone down, screen against the polished mahogany nightstand. He leaned back on the bed, staring at the perforated leather ceiling. The jet banked gently, beginning its wide turn back toward the coast, back toward the maze. He had named her. Not out loud to Susan, but in the silent chambers of his own need. And in doing so, he had made his next move. He had just signaled to Caron, and to Megan, exactly where his weakest point was.
The game was no longer about escape. It was about conquest. And the prize had a name.