I give him a look. “Don’t.”
He exhales through his nose. “I will always choose your safety above all else.”
“Even if it means keeping me a prisoner?” I whisper.
He doesn’t answer, just nods toward the jet. “Come on.”
The wind tugs at my hair as I climb the stairs. Duchess meows once in protest from her carrier, annoyed at the noise. I tell her it’ll be fine, even though we both know I’m lying.
Inside, the cabin smells like leather and jet fuel. Eli takes the seat across from me, phone already in his hand. Always working. Always controlling.
I press my forehead against the window, eyes tracing the distant line of trees. I keep waiting for something. A sound, a glimpse, a reason to believe he’ll show up.
He doesn’t.
The engines start. The plane lurches forward. And just like that, I’m gone.
Somewhere over the mountains, Eli finally looks up.
“You should rest,” he says, not unkindly.
I nod, unbuckling my seatbelt. “I think I’ll sleep in the back.”
He doesn’t stop me. Probably thinks I’m finally listening. I walk past him down the narrow corridor, into the small private cabin at the rear of the plane. The door closes with a soft click, muting the world.
The bed is neatly made, the sheets tucked with military precision. I sit on the edge of it, fingers twisting the hem of my sweater. The air hums with the low thrum of the engines. Steady. Relentless. Unfeeling.
And then it hits me—the weight of it all.
I press my hands to my face, but it doesn’t stop the tears. They come anyway. Hot, quiet, and angry.
I cry for the silence he left behind. For the way he made me believe there might have been something real underneath allthat control. I cry because he didn’t come. Because I shouldn’t have expected him to. Because I still did.
When the sobs finally stop, I lie down and stare at the ceiling until everything blurs.
ONE MONTH LATER
New York feels too loud. I’ve been back for weeks, and the noise still grates at me. The sirens, the traffic, the constant hum of life that never pauses long enough for you to catch your breath. The city moves fast, merciless, like it knows if it slows down, it might remember what it lost.
I fit right in.
Valentina insisted on meeting for coffee, saying I need to “be around people.” I didn’t argue. Arguing takes energy I don’t have.
The car drops me off on Fifth, just outside a place called The Velvet Bloom. The sign is painted in soft gold letters against navy wood, the kind of place people post on Instagram with captions about “slow mornings” and “self-care.” I push open the door, and a cool breeze washes over me as I step inside.
The scent hits first: coffee, sugar, vanilla. The kind of smell that should comfort, but doesn’t. A soft hum of conversation fills the air. The café is small, but beautiful: exposed brick walls lined with shelves of mismatched mugs and old books. Sunlight filters through the tall windows, catching on dust motes that dance in the glow. The pendant lights above the counter cast a warm amber hue, making everything look softer, easier to believe in.
Valentina waves me over from a table near the window. She’s radiant as always: dark hair pulled into a sleek bun, diamondglinting on her left hand. Beside her sits Alessia, all polished charm and careful smiles.
“Mara,” Valentina says, rising to hug me. “You look good.”
“I look tired,” I correct, managing a small smile.
“Same thing,” Alessia says lightly, pushing a cappuccino toward me. “Here. You need this.”
I take it. “Thanks.”
The conversation starts slow. Small talk, updates, polite laughter. I let them lead, nodding when appropriate, pretending not to notice the glances they exchange when they think I’m not looking.
