Kazaf pushed open the glass door of the Flying Horse Airlines Lost and Found center, his stride unhurried.
A black suitcase dragged from his hand, its polished surface catching the glare of the fluorescent lights. Reaching the counter, he set it down with a confident thud.
"This isn't my suitcase."
The staff behind the desk—a young woman in a crisp uniform, her hair tied neatly back—looked from the case to him.
Her brows arched politely, though her gaze lingered on him longer than necessary.
In front of her stood a tall —handsome man, with a perfect jawline and long hair.
He was strong-built, the kind of presence that made him alluring rather than intimidating.
"Sir, could you explain what you mean?"
Kazaf exhaled slowly, his palm brushing over the leather. His voice was quiet and steady, edged with disbelief.
"This looks almost exactly like mine, but it isn't. My suitcase is older—the edges are a little worn, the handle softened. This one?" He tapped the lid lightly. "Brand-new. Someone must have switched them. Probably without even realizing it."
The attendant's lips pressed together, fighting back a smile at his intensity.
Something about his calm certainty didn't match the usual frantic complaints she dealt with every day from passengers who lost their luggage.
"So… you're saying someone might have taken yours by mistake?"
Kazaf's mouth tilted into a crooked smile. "Exactly."
The attendant began typing, fingers gliding across the keyboard, though her eyes flicked back to him more than once.
"It does happen sometimes, sir, especially with identical luggage. Do you still have your baggage tag?"
With practiced ease, Kazaf slid the claim ticket across the counter.
His lips curved into a half-smirk, as though even in irritation he refused to surrender his composure.
"Of course. I always keep track of my things. Unlike the mysterious stranger who walked off with mine."
He said it so dramatically that it was hard for the attendant to keep her composure.
She checked the code, her expression tightening. "Strange… there's no report of a missing suitcase."
Kazaf leaned in slightly, his tone softening to something almost conspiratorial.
"Which means the person who has mine doesn't even know it yet."
Her composure faltered for the first time. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, stalling for a breath before regaining her professional tone.
"All right. Let's follow procedure. Please wait a moment."
The staff helped Kazaf fill out a PIR, providing all his details, flight information, baggage tag number, and a description of his suitcase—essential for tracking and resolving the issue.
Then she tried to explain the remaining procedure, which Kazaf found tedious, likely to delay him and cost him time.
Even though compensation might come, he had no interest in endless paperwork, follow-ups, and insurance claims.
Instead, he suggested a simpler, more efficient plan—since all passengers from his flight were headed to the same destination, it would save time and effort.
The staff, with no authority, refused. Kazaf, insisting and using his charm, convinced her to at least consult her supervisor.
She stepped away and returned, gesturing for him to follow. Clearly, the supervisor saw the sense in Kazaf's plan—it was efficient and saved the airline from potential compensation claims.
Her pace was brisk, but the flicker of unease in her eyes betrayed her practiced calm.
In the monitor room, the CCTV feed replayed the baggage carousel.
Kazaf stood tall behind her, arms folded, gaze sharp as a predator studying prey.
Then—there. A woman appeared on screen: stylish, graceful, phone pressed to her ear.
Distracted, she pulled a suitcase from the belt, identical to the one Kazaf had returned, and walked away without hesitation.
"Pause it," Kazaf commanded, voice calm but edged with steel. His eyes narrowed on the figure as he identified his missing suitcase.
The operator froze the frame. The woman's face filled the screen—elegant, unaware, her mind clearly elsewhere.
Kazaf studied the image, momentarily forgetting his primary objective.
Even in the distraction, he couldn't deny how stunning she was.
Another camera caught her minutes later, stepping into a shuttle emblazoned with the Grand Victoria Hotel logo—proof of his earlier suspicion.
The attendant turned to Kazaf, tone softening almost apologetically. "Sir, it looks like she's taken your case without realizing it. We can—"
Kazaf raised a hand, cutting her off. His smirk returned, playful this time.
"Don't trouble yourselves." He lifted the wrong suitcase effortlessly, voice smooth. "Since I'm heading to the Grand Victoria Hotel myself, I'll find her, and we'll swap. Simple as that."
Though clearly against standard procedure, the supervisor had already allowed it—it would prevent potential liabilities and save time. "Well… good luck, sir."
Kazaf leaned closer, lowering his voice until it brushed her ear like a secret. "Luck's never been my style. But thank you."
Her heartbeat betrayed her composure, quickening despite her restraint. She tried to smile steadily, but her lips trembled faintly.
Before she could recover, Kazaf slid a folded memo into her palm, his fingers brushing hers deliberately, lingering long enough to make her breath catch.
On the paper—his number, written in neat, confident strokes.
Then, with practiced charm, he lifted her hand and pressed a gentleman's kiss to her knuckles. Warm, deliberate.
"Don't lose my number, all right? Trust me, my suitcase isn't the only thing I'd hate to lose."
Her cheeks flushed, eyes widening. She pulled her hand back quickly, professionalism slipping as a shy smile broke through.
"You—" she caught herself, stealing a breath. "You should go, sir."
Kazaf winked, mischief glinting in his eyes. "Now that," he murmured, "is the best advice I've heard all day."
He turned on his heel and strode out of the Lost and Found center, the wrong suitcase swinging casually at his side.
His steps were steady, but the image of the mysterious woman lingered in his mind like sparks—he had no intention of putting them out.
---
Jasmine swiped her keycard and pushed open the door to her suite at the Grand Victoria Hotel. A cool wash of air-conditioning greeted her.
The space carried a faint blend of fresh linen and the salty breath of the ocean drifting through the windows.
The suite was classically French—elegant without ostentation. A large king-sized bed anchored the room, its headboard framed in polished wood.
Custom marquetry furniture—bedside tables with lamps, a small armchair upholstered in golden fabric—added warmth.
Long, flowing cream drapes framed airy windows opening to sweeping views of the island.
The walls were subtly textured, accented with framed floral motifs. Beneath her feet, the carpet stretched with intricate border patterns.
Opposite the bed, a flat-screen TV hung neatly against the wall.
With a soft sigh, Jasmine dropped the sleek black suitcase onto the bed.
She slipped off her heels, letting them fall soundlessly onto the carpet, and padded barefoot toward the bathroom.
The hot shower was bliss. Steam fogged the glass as she tilted her face upward, letting the steady spray wash exhaustion from her muscles.
For the first time since arriving, she felt herself truly exhale. This trip had never been her idea—she would have preferred burying herself in work—but at least here, she could steal a moment of quiet.
Wrapped snugly in a towel, droplets still sliding from her hair, Jasmine returned to the bedroom.
She perched on the edge of the bed and pulled the suitcase closer with a faint smile.
She always packed neatly, efficiently, and knowing everything she needed was inside gave her a rare sense of control.
But the moment the latch clicked open, her smile vanished.
Inside were not her carefully folded dresses and pressed blouses but crisp men's shirts, dark slacks, boxers, and a leather belt coiled like a snake atop it.
A subtle cologne clung to the fabric—warm, musky, distinctly masculine.
Jasmine froze. The towel slipped slightly at her chest, and she caught it with one hand, eyes locked on the foreign belongings as if staring hard enough might transform them into her own.
"What the—… This isn't mine," she whispered, the sound too loud in the hush of the suite.
Her heart lurched, confusion sharpening into realization. The suitcase—identical.
"Great, just great. Of course this would happen. I can't believe I dragged this stupid suitcase all the way from the airport here only to find out it's the wrong one.
How stupid of me not to even check the tag first before dragging it around."
She must have picked up the wrong one at the airport, distracted after her long flight, focused on a phone call with Rhea, and failed to claim the right suitcase at the time.
"This is exactly the kind of nightmare people laugh about in movies. Except it's not funny when it's you."
Her jaw tightened. Of all the complications she could face, a luggage mix-up was the last she wanted.
The idea of someone else opening her suitcase, invading her privacy, clearly bothered her.
With a sharp snap, she closed the case and sat on the edge of the bed, towel clutched close, unease pressing down on her shoulders.