I turn over in my seat, tugging the blanket up over my body. I pull my knees up on the chair, getting comfortable. I've already taken my shoes off, trying to get as cosy as possible. We must be halfway through the flight by now, with five hours left to go. I spent the first two hours watching a movie but fell asleep soon after. Now, I'm approaching the end of 27 Dresses.

I'm glad I joined Sainte back here. It's much more comfortable than the basic rows of seats. It's set up like a small living room. Actually no, it's not small at all. It's bigger than my living room in New York. There's a rectangle of couches along the left side of the plane, and two screens on the right. That's where I'm sitting now, with a cup of coffee resting on the coffee table. Sainte is further into the room, at a 10 seater table. I can't tell if it's intended for a conference or dining, but it's suitable for both.

I turn to look at him. He's got a scowl on his face, typing away at his laptop, just like he has been all morning. He notices me looking at him, and turns to look at me, pausing his typing.

"Are you okay?" he asks. I nod, standing up from my seat. I stretch out my legs but don't bother putting my shoes back on.

"Are you getting restless?"

"A little," I say. "Is there any food I can eat?"

"Of course," he nods. "There's sushi for lunch, but there should be some snacks, too."

"In the kitchen?"

I walked past the kitchen when I decided to join Saint in this room. It's opposite the bathroom, between this area, and the one where Jordan is sitting.

"Don't worry, I'll get you some things," Sainte says, standing up as well.

"Are you sure? I'm happy to do it."

"No, no, you take a seat."

He gives me a sweet smile, walking past me. I get a brief whiff of his cologne, and it's enough to make me turn my head and watch his backside shift as he walks to the kitchen. I smirk at myself and take a seat at the table. Sainte was sitting at the head, so I sit beside him, with only the corner of the table between us.

His laptop is still open, so I peek at it. He's typing an email in Italian. It's a long email, probably longer than any email I've ever typed. I can't make sense of it either. There's a lot of words I understand, but some are too technical for me.

"Do you like fruit?" Sainte asks, returning to the room. "Everything else has carbs."

"Fruit is perfect," I grin. He's effortlessly carrying a tray of fruit in one hand. He places it down on the table before me and returns to his seat. Instead of typing again like I expect him to, he shuts his laptop and pushes it to the side.

Wait a second. He didn't have a bag with him when we arrived.

"Where did the laptop come from?" I question.

"I have an assistant," he tells me.

"Ah," I nod. "I haven't noticed before."

"Good. That's what I pay him for."

I give him a nervous chuckle, but turn my attention to the food before me. There's all kind of fresh fruits here. Oranges, bananas, strawberries, avocados...you name it. I munch on some grapes, but Sainte's eyes are distracting me. He's watching me.

"What's wrong?" I ask him.

"Why do you not eat carbs?" he asks me. I shrug.

"I just don't."

"You don't have a reason?"

"I do. I just don't like talking about it."

"Does it have anything to do with David Rossi?" he asks. I stay silent, but not for long.

"How do you know that?"

"I spoke to him."

"Of course you did," I snicker. There's no point in keeping anything private.

"I hadn't intended to go around you, but when I spoke to him about the incident in the shooting range, he started talking about your past."

"And what did he say—that I'm fat and ugly?" I scoff. That's all he used to tell me. He drilled it into my head over and over again.

"Sofia," he takes my hand. "I'm so sorry he said those things to you. They're not true at all."

"They were," I say. "I lost 60 pounds after I moved away, and I don't even know how many surgeries I've had just to make myself feel good."

"I'm sorry you had to go through that," he says. "I didn't know you back then, but I'm sure you would've been just as beautiful as you are today."

"I know you're trying to be nice, but this is something I've been dealing with for years, and it's not going to go away anytime soon."

"I'm sorry, Sofia. I just want you to be happy."

"I am happy," I tell him. "I feel good about myself now. I like how I look, and I'm happy to diet so I can keep feeling this way."

"Are you sure?" he hesitates. "It doesn't sound very healthy?"

"Well, I don't hate myself anymore, and that's already a big step in the right direction."

"Okay," he nods. "I understand that."

"Now can we please talk about something else?"

"Of course, Sofia, I'm sorry. I was just worried about you."

"I'm okay, Sainte," I assure him. "I promise."

"You can call me Salvatore now, if you'd like," he changes the subject. Thankfully.

"Salvatore?" I test the name in my mouth. "Why does no one call you that?"

"Sainte is easier," he shrugs.

"What do you prefer?"

"Sainte."

"Well, I like Salvatore," I say. And I'm not just teasing him for calling me Sofia, I actually do like the name.

"Do you mind that I call you Sofia?" he asks.

"Not really. It's kind of sweet when you say it. It sounds so... Italian."

"It is Italian."

"But I don't speak it, so it feels a little weird."

"You don't speak Italian?"

"Not fluently."

"I'll get you a tutor when we get back."

"A tutor?" I scowl. "Do I have to?"

"No, but a regina should speak Italian."

"Can't there be an exception?"

"I suppose, but it's tradition."

"Well, I'm not doing it."

"Sofia..." he sighs, but I can't fake it anymore. A teasing smile pulls at my lips.

"I'm just messing with you," I laugh. "I'd love to learn Italian again."

"That's not funny, Sofia," he tries to be serious, but he can't help but smile. "I didn't want to argue with you again."

"Not this time," I say. "We're alright for now."

"For now?"

"For now."