Megan stood frozen for a moment, her eyes locked on the Rolls-Royce Cullinan parked in front of her, the suited driver already holding the door open.
For a second, she felt like she had stumbled into the set of a Hollywood drama about billionaire heirs. Blinking in surprise, she let out a small laugh.
"So… the Cullinan everyone's been buzzing about on the campus forum lately—turns out it's yours, huh, Jason? Don't tell me that Lamborghini people saw last week was yours too?"
Jason didn't bother to hide anything. He leaned casually against the seat, replying with a light nod."Yeah, that was me too."
Megan's eyes softened, her lips curling into a subtle smile. With a graceful sway of her waist, she stepped elegantly into the backseat.
Inside Jason's head came a prompt:[Megan: Favorability +5]
Her luggage was taken care of instantly by the driver, who loaded it neatly into the trunk without her lifting a finger.
"Who styled your hair?" Megan asked after settling in, tilting her head as she studied him.
Jason shrugged. "Just the cut I got last time we went to the mall together. I just ran my hands through it this morning."
"You should really have a personal stylist. Leave it to me—I'll help you find someone." Megan leaned closer, her delicate fingers brushing across his forehead as she tidied his hair.
Her touch was feather-light, like silk grazing his skin. The faint scent of her perfume drifted into his nose, warm and intoxicating. For a fleeting second, Jason almost let himself lean into her, even though he knew exactly what kind of woman she was. I know your game, Megan… but damn, it's hard not to sink into it.
"There," she said at last, pulling out her compact mirror and angling it toward him. "Look. Much better. With a face like yours, wasting it on bad styling is practically a crime."
Jason glanced at the reflection—she wasn't wrong. He made a mental note: maybe a stylist wasn't a bad idea.
The ride flew by in laughter and easy conversation. It wasn't that Jason was some master of witty banter—Megan had a talent for making anyone feel like they were. She laughed at the right moments, leaned in just enough, brushed his arm when he joked. Every now and then, just when Jason felt the urge to pull her closer, she would smoothly retreat, leaving him itching for more.
Before long, the Cullinan pulled up outside LAX's private terminal. The driver unloaded their bags and left without a word.
The moment they stepped out, three men in sharp suits approached—a tall, thin man with a long face leading the way.
"Mr Jason," the man said respectfully, bowing slightly, "I'm Mark. Please allow me to personally welcome you. And you must be Miss Megan."
"Hello," Jason replied with a nod.
"Hello," Megan echoed, her elegance only deepening under the weight of the moment. She wasn't the type to gape in awe—she carried herself with practiced composure, as though she'd been born for this kind of life.
"Mr. Jason, Miss Megan, this way please," Mr. Mark gestured. His assistants wheeled their bags behind him as he led them through the exclusive FBO channel—no lines, no TSA checkpoints, no crowds.
They bypassed the usual chaos of the airport entirely, moving straight through private security into the tarmac itself, where a sleek Gulfstream jet waited with its engines humming.
Megan's eyes widened slightly, though she masked it with a poised smile. This was different from flying business class or even first—this was the kind of travel reserved for billionaires and celebrities.
Leaning close to Jason's ear, she whispered with a playful grin:"So… is this what they call the American Express Centurion treatment? The infamous black card experience?"
Megan didn't pretend to understand, but instead humbly asked—her tone soft and curious, which only made her look even more adorable.
Leaning a little closer, her natural fragrance drifted faintly as she whispered near Jason's ear, her breath warm and sweet, giving off an air of closeness.
Although she spoke quietly, Mark, who had followed them, still heard her. He smiled knowingly and explained:
"Miss Megan, this isn't a platinum membership card. This is a Gulfstream G550 private jet. Mr Jason has chartered the entire plane. The only passengers aboard are you and him."
Megan's lips parted in shock, her eyes wide. A private jet—something she had only ever seen on TV before—was now in front of her.
The cabin door opened, and a pair of flight attendants greeted them warmly at the entrance. As they boarded, attendants swiftly took their coats, handling everything with professional ease.
The interior stunned Megan. Unlike the rows of cramped seats on commercial flights, the Gulfstream felt more like a luxurious lounge.
Spacious seating, wide leather sofas, polished tables, a minibar, large screen TVs—every detail screamed comfort and elegance.
"Mr Jason, Miss Megan, what would you like to drink?" asked one of the attendants with a bright smile.
"Orange juice," Jason said casually. To him, luxury wasn't about showing off—it was simply about comfort. Even plain water wasn't "low" when you could afford to charter the whole jet.
"Then I'll have orange juice too," Megan said quickly, her choice aligning with his.
They sat down together, sipping juice, and Megan couldn't help but be intoxicated—not by the drink, but by the experience. Money, she realized, had its own taste. Her gaze lingered on Jason a little longer than before, her eyes carrying a subtle charm.
Megan: Favorability +5.
The jet soon took off, but to her surprise, there was no turbulence, no discomfort—it was as smooth as being at home. She had flown before, but never like this.
The attendants' service was attentive without being intrusive, making "first-class" seem ordinary in comparison.
Her body leaned subtly closer to Jason as they chatted, almost without her noticing. Her movements, her posture—whether sitting or standing—radiated a soft elegance that seemed naturally inviting.
Later, while waiting for the restroom, Megan curiously searched the charter cost of the Gulfstream G550 on her phone. Her breath caught when she saw the price: roughly $55,000 an hour.
When she returned, instead of sitting across from him, she slipped into the seat right beside Jason, as if drawn by an invisible thread. Their conversation carried them effortlessly through the hours, and before she realized it, the plane was landing in Miami. For the first time, Megan felt reluctant—the ride felt too short.
At the airport, staff immediately handled the luggage, and Old Mark guided them through the VIP terminal without delay.
Outside, a black Rolls-Royce was already waiting. The driver opened the door with a bow, and they were on their way.
Soon, they arrived at the legendary Atlantis Paradise Island Resort in the Bahamas. Jason had booked the famed underwater suite, running nearly $15,000 a night.
The suite was two levels, its lower walls made of glass that looked directly into the ocean. Hundreds of exotic marine creatures glided past, surrounding them in a living dream.
From departure to arrival, Megan felt no exhaustion at all—only delight and wonder. For the first time, she understood why Jason hadn't rushed to make any bold moves.
Travel wasn't tiring. Poverty was. True luxury meant you never felt weary—it was all pure enjoyment.
Megan: Favorability +5.
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