Chapter 3: Sky high
The plane climbed, pressing Beth back into the leather seat. She kept her face turned to the window, watching Milan shrink into a grid of insignificant lights. Her reflection, pale and severe, was superimposed over the darkening sky. She could feel him beside her, a living, breathing disturbance in her airspace. He hadn’t said a word since takeoff.
A flight attendant brought champagne. Beth accepted the flute without looking. Damien took his. The quiet clink as he set it on his tray table was an accusation.
“You look tired,” he said finally, his voice a low rumble under the engine’s drone.
“Jet lag,” she replied, the words automatic. She took a sip. The bubbles were sharp, hostile.
“It’s the conscience that keeps you up, Beth. Not the time zones.”
She turned then, slowly, letting her gaze land on him. He was watching her with that infuriating, knowing calm. “My conscience is clear. It’s my tolerance for bullshit that’s wearing thin.”
He smiled, a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. “There she is.”
She looked away again, swallowing more champagne. The past was a locked room, but he’d just kicked the door open. The memories didn’t flood; they seeped in, toxic and precise.
It hadn’t been the money. She’d grown up around old money that smelled like dust and regret; his new money, volatile and blood-tinged, was almost more honest. It wasn’t the violence, either. The world was violent. She’d seen the split knuckles, the cold glint in his eyes when a threat materialized. She’d even found it perversely reassuring. He was a wolf. He could protect what was his.
The problem was that he decided what was his.
She remembered the smell of his office one night—cigar smoke and expensive whiskey. She’d brought him a contract, a legitimate shipping lane she could secure through a contact. A way in.
“You don’t need to see this, baby,” he’d said, covering the papers on his desk with a casual hand. His smile was a dismissal.
“I’m not your baby. I’m your wife. And that’s our problem, not yours.”
“This is my problem.” The charm had evaporated. “This part stays with me. You have your galleries, your charities. Keep your hands clean.”
“They’re already dirty!” she’d shouted, the frustration a geyser. “They’ve been dirty since the first time I washed your shirt and the water turned pink! You think I don’t know? You think I care? I just refuse to be some kept woman you lie to between meetings!”
The arguments were circular, brutal. He’d shut down, retreating behind a wall of stubborn, archaic protectiveness. He wanted a queen on a balcony, waving at a crowd, not a partner in the trenches. The lying was a constant, low-grade fever. Omissions about his whereabouts. Vague answers about new associates. A closed door, a hushed phone call. Each one a paper cut. After a thousand, she was bleeding out.
The final one was so stupid. A missing weekend he’d blamed on a business emergency in Montreal. She’d known he was in New York. She’d seen the credit card receipt for a restaurant she loved, a place they’d gone together. He’d taken someone else. When she confronted him, he hadn’t even denied the lie. He’d just gotten angry that she’d been checking. That was the moment. The love hadn’t died; it had been suffocated, buried under the sheer, exhausting weight of his deceit.
“You stopped trusting me,” he said now, as if reading the reel of film playing behind her eyes.
She snorted, a short, ugly sound. “You burned the trust, Damien. I just stopped fanning the flames.”
The plane hit a patch of turbulence, jolting. Her champagne sloshed. His hand shot out, steadying her wrist. His skin was hot. The contact was electric, a volt of pure, unwelcome history. She yanked her arm back as if scalded.
“Don’t.”
“Old habits,” he murmured, but his eyes were dark, fixed on where he’d touched her.
“Break them.” She willed her heart to slow down. “You were a habit I kicked. Best decision I ever made.”
“Was it?” He leaned closer, his voice dropping. The ambient noise of the cabin seemed to fade. “You built an empire. So did I. We both got everything we said we wanted. Funny how it all feels like scrap metal now.”
“Speak for yourself. My life isn’t a vacant lot.”
“Isn’t it?” The challenge was soft, deadly. “All these years, Beth. The men. Where are they?”
Her spine went rigid. “None of your business.”
“I make it my business.” The casual flirt was gone. Something colder, more territorial, took its place. “The financier in Dubai. He lasted three months. The artist from Stockholm. Two. The lawyer… what was his name? He bored you by the second dinner. You pick them because they’re safe. Because they’re shadows. And you discard them because they’re not me.”
The accuracy was a violation. She felt exposed, flayed open at 30,000 feet. “You arrogant son of a bitch.”
“I’m a realist. You crave the storm. You always did. You just hate that I’m the one who makes the lightning.”
The FASTEN SEATBELT sign pinged on. The captain announced more turbulence ahead. The plane gave another sickening lurch, dropping briefly before catching itself. The attendant hurried to secure the galley.
In the shuddering cabin, trapped by the belt, there was nowhere to look but at him. The mask was gone from both of them. Her fury was naked. His need was just as raw, a desperate thing in the green of his eyes.
“You broke us,” she whispered, the words torn out of her.
“I know.” No deflection. No excuse. Just two words, heavy as stones. “And I have lived inside that mistake every day since. You think I don’t feel the fracture? It’s the only thing I do feel.”
The plane began its gradual descent, pressure building in their ears. The promise of Paris, another city, another escape, lay below. But the escape was an illusion. He was right. He’d followed her here. He would follow her anywhere.
The wheels touched down with a shriek of rubber. They taxied. The moment the sign chimed off, Beth unbuckled and stood, needing space, needing to break the magnetic pull between their seats.
“My car will be waiting,” she said, not looking at him as she pulled her bag from the overhead.
“Mine too,” he said, rising beside her, his body too close in the narrow aisle. “The party at the Villa Conti. In Nice. That’s where you’re headed next, right? After your Paris meetings.”
She froze. The exclusive, discreet party on the French Riviera. The one she’d booked the private suite for. How could he possibly…
He saw the question on her face. “You have a new assistant. Marco. He’s very thorough. And his mortgage is very large.”
He had bought her itinerary. Of course he had.
The doors opened. A wave of jetbridge air washed over them.
Damien gestured for her to go ahead. A mockery of courtesy. “After you, Bethany. I’ll be right behind you.”
She walked, her heels hitting the carpet with deliberate, steady clicks. But her mind was chaos. He wasn’t just knocking on the door of her life anymore. He’d picked the lock. He was inside. And the terrible, unspeakable truth, curling like smoke in the ruins of her control, was a single, damning thought.
Some part of her had left that candle unlit for a reason.
Some part of her had been waiting for him to start the fire.