Chapter 211: Oliver Reyes Is Way Too Poor for This

Chapter 211: Oliver Reyes Is Way Too Poor for This

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I still had a whole list of things in mind when Damien said he was taking me somewhere special for winter break. A nice restaurant? Sure. Maybe a hotel?

Or even a fancy resort where I’d spend the whole trip pretending to know how to operate the fancy gadgets in the bathroom while secretly looking up instructions under the covers.

But a private jet?!

That was a surprise I didn’t, in a million fucking years see coming.

Let me rephrase that. I really didn’t expect to find myself standing on the inside of a private jet, doing my best not to look like I’d just stumbled into the wrong place, like one of those people you see a security guard guiding back out.

I had never in my life stepped in to a regular plane before! Not to talk of a private jet!

Apparently, this was the new level of wealth that Damien had decided to embrace.

I stood just inside the entrance, my bag still slung over one shoulder, and gaped.

The leather seats looked comfier than all the mattresses I’d ever owned, there were polished surfaces everywhere, little lamps glowing above, and enough legroom to actually stretch out without worrying about kicking the person in front of me.

Given that I was used to crammed buses, where your knees brushing against the seat in front was a given, this seemed too good to be true.

I slowly turned to Damien, who was already reclining in one of the chairs as if he did this all the time, casually unbuttoning his coat like it was just another day.

He caught my eye. "What?"

I could only stare back at him. "Seriously, you’re joking."

His eyebrow lifted, clearly amused. "About what?"

I gestured around the cabin like it was some kind of evidence in a court case.

"This!"

Damien looked around as though he’d truly forgotten where we were.

"It’s a plane."

"I know it’s a plane!"

"Then what’s the problem?"

"The problem," I said in a hushed tone as if the plane could hear me, "is that this plane has a freaking living room, the fuck?"

His mouth quirked up.

"It doesn’t have a living room."

I pointed at the seating area, where a cluster of seats and a low table sat arranged with more care than my entire apartment.

"That is a living room with wings."

He actually laughed, not just a little chuckle but a full-on laugh that made his shoulders shake, echoing through the cabin and even making the flight attendant glance over with a smirk.

I narrowed my eyes. "This isn’t funny."

"It is a little funny."

"You brought me onto a flying mansion!"

"I told you we were going somewhere."

"You said we were going somewhere special. You didn’t mention anything about leaving the country with a private jet."

Damien leaned back, looking entirely too pleased. "You’re being dramatic."

"I’m being reasonably alarmed."

Just then, a flight attendant came over with a polite smile, offering us champagne on a small tray.

I looked at the glass, then at Damien, and then back to the glass.

"No, thank you."

Damien didn’t hesitate to take one, looking like a guy who drinks champagne before noon as if it’s just another Tuesday.

He turned to the attendant, "He doesn’t drink alcohol. Get him something that doesn’t have that."

"Yes, Mr. Lockwood."

I frowned and touched his shoulder to whisper in his ear. "Say please."

Damien turned to me and rose an eyebrow in confusion and I clarified, "I know she works for you but you still have to be polite...say please."

Damien smirked and shook his head fondly as if deciding to humour a little kid. "Get him some non-alcoholic, please."

The attendant smiled and moved on and I watched Damien take a sip.

"You’re such a little shit."

He raised an eyebrow at me over the rim of the glass. "I haven’t even done anything."

"You brought me onto a private jet and basically kidnapped me."

"You could’ve said no."

I scoffed. "And what was I supposed to say? ’No, Damien, I refuse to experience financial privilege today. Please take me back to the nearest bus!’?"

He smirked. "I would’ve respected that."

"No, you wouldn’t."

"No, you’re right. I probably wouldn’t."

I plopped into the seat next to him and buckled up, still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I was flying somewhere without having to battle for overhead space or worry if someone had stepped on my shoes.

A few minutes later, another flight attendant offered me an iced tea. "Thank you."

I took the glass, and his smile widened instantly. "Don’t."

"I didn’t say anything."

"Your face did."

"My face is innocent."

"Your face has never been innocent a day in its life."

He laughed again, and despite myself, I couldn’t help but smile. That was the frustrating thing about Damien; even when he was up to something ridiculous, he made it feel like the most normal thing in the world just by being there, amused while I had a meltdown over sparkling wine.

The flight itself did little to ease my tension. If anything, it made it worse. There was real food, not just sad packets of peanuts or questionable sandwiches.

We had actual meals beautifully arranged on plates, drinks brought to us, and plenty of space to stretch my legs whenever I felt like it...which I did, repeatedly, just to savor the novelty of it all.

I even started contemplating the possibility of dying and waking up as the billionaire son of some wealthy ass family. Now that would be the life...

At one point, I stared out the window for a while before turning to Damien. "Do you know how much I could buy with what this flight probably costs?"

He didn’t even look up from his book.

"No."

"Probably my entire grocery budget for six months."

Finally, he glanced my way. "You think too much about money."

"That’s because I’ve never had enough of it, but I think it’s fun to think that way."

His expression softened for just a moment, the teasing tone disappearing.

I instantly regretted saying it. Not because it wasn’t true, but because I knew he hated hearing me talk about my money problems.

He always had that look in his eyes, the one that said he wanted to somehow fix it, and while I appreciated the thought, I didn’t want to be another thing he felt responsible for.

So, I nudged him playfully, trying to steer the conversation back to safer shores.

"Besides, I’m enjoying the free food."

That earned me a small smile.

I settled back into my seat, smiling. For the rest of the flight, I tried to chill out. Eventually, I got pretty close to it.

Almost.

Because once we landed, I stepped outside and immediately forgot how to breathe. Warm air hit me, thick and salty, completely opposite to the coat I was still wearing.

I paused on the steps leading down from the jet, staring. The air smelled like salt and some tropical scent I couldn’t place, and in the distance, I could hear waves crashing against the shore, steady as a heartbeat.

I looked around.

No massive airport. No crowds, no endless luggage lines. Just a small private airstrip surrounded by lush greenery, palm trees swaying lazily in the breeze, and an ocean that stretched infinitely beneath a bright blue sky so vivid it seemed unreal, like a screensaver I had accidentally stepped into.

For a moment, I just stood there with my widened eyes...

Damien stepped down beside me, with his hands in his pocket...completely unfazed by the view, like he was just checking the weather instead of standing in front of paradise.

Just another bland fucking day for the young master Lockwood.

I turned to him slowly. "You’ve got five seconds to tell me where we are, before I kick you in the balls."

He looked at me with a chuckle. "Alright, alright...We’re here."

I blinked.."That wasn’t the question."

His face remained perfectly calm.

"We’re on the island."

I frowned. "What island?"

He casually gestured toward the landscape, the way someone might point to an average parking spot.

"This one."

I stared at him, then at the ocean, and back at him.

He had to be kidding me...!

"You’ve got to be kidding me."

He smiled. "No."

I pointed at the beach.

"Is this a resort?"

"No."

"A hotel?"

"No."

"Some kind of private vacation place?"

"...Something like that."

I narrowed my eyes. "Damien, tell me."

He sighed, seemingly done with my confusion. "I own the island."

There was a long beat if deafening silence... I stared at him, and he watched me, clearly finding my reaction amusing.

I keep staring, half expecting him to crack a joke.

"Wait, what?"

"I said I own the island."

I laughed, not because it was funny, but because my brain seemed to have short-circuited somewhere between the champagne and the palm trees.

"You own the island."

"Yes."

"The entire island?"

"Yes."

"Not a house on the island?"

"No."

"Not part of the island?"

"No."

"The whole thing?"

Damien’s mouth twitched. "Yes, Oliver. The whole thing."