Chapter 4
Kori
I’m not fine. I have never experienced a flight as rocky as this one.
The plane bucks and dips through another pocket of turbulence somewhere over the Atlantic.
Which isn’t helping me. In the dim cabin of this red-eye flight, I’ve become that passenger—the one with puffy eyes and a growing mound of damp tissues on the verge of hysteria.
It doesn’t help that there is a creepy, drunk guy across the aisle attempting to wink at me. At least the women travelling with him gave me an apologetic smile. I pull my coat tighter around me and sob quietly into my tissue, turning my face toward the window.
I’m almost asleep when a shout from that direction has me straightening in my seat to get a better look.
“Will you sit down?” a deep voice hisses from across the aisle. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
I turn my head slightly, peeking through swollen eyelids to see the commotion.
The drunk man who’s been staring at me is now struggling to stand, swaying dangerously as the plane hits another pocket of turbulence.
He’s tall, with dark hair on the longish side and tattooed, with the kind of rugged good looks that probably get him out of trouble as often as they get him into it.
“I just wanna say hello,” he slurs, gesturing toward me. “She’s been crying for hours. S’not right.”
Two dark-haired men are physically restraining him, their hands gripping his shoulders and pushing him back into his seat.
“Kane, for Christ’s sake,” one mutters. “Leave her alone. She clearly wants privacy.”
So, the drunk has a name. Kane. It suits him somehow, sharp and dangerous.
“Declan, lemme go,” Kane protests, struggling against their grip. “M’just being friendly.”
“Your version of friendly got you punched at the ceremony, remember?” the short dark-haired one— Declan—says, forcibly pushing Kane back into his seat.
I shrink further into my corner, mortified to be the center of this drama.
The last thing I need right now is some intoxicated stranger’s misguided attempt at comfort.
Mark always said I had a face that invited strangers to tell me their problems. Apparently, it also encourages drunk men on international flights to say hello.
“She’s sad,” Kane insists, his voice carrying through the quiet cabin. “I know sad when I see it. Trust me, I’m an expert.”
Two women sitting with their group exchange glances. One—plump and petite with striking features—rolls her eyes dramatically, while the other—athletic looking with auburn hair—looks apologetically in my direction.
“I’m so sorry,” the auburn-haired woman mouths to me.
I give a slight nod of acknowledgment, then turn back to the window, hoping they’ll all forget about me. The last twenty-four hours have been humiliating enough without becoming airplane entertainment.
“Kane, I swear to God,” Declan growls, “if you don’t shut up and stay in your seat, I’ll knock you out myself and tell the flight attendants you had a medical emergency.”
“You wouldn’t,” Kane challenges, though he stops struggling.
“Try me,” Declan responds, his voice deadly serious.
I risk another glance their way. Kane is slumped in his seat now, looking sullen but subdued. His companions remain tense, as if expecting him to make another attempt at standing. The two women are whispering to each other, occasionally glancing in my direction.
Great. Five strangers are now fully invested in my emotional breakdown.
I dab at my eyes with a fresh tissue, wishing I could disappear.
Or at least that I’d taken Jen’s advice and gotten that pixie cut instead of my amateur hack job.
My hand instinctively touches my choppy hair, making me wince.
In the airplane bathroom mirror earlier, I’d looked like a woman on the edge. Which, to be fair, I am.
The flight attendant approaches with the beverage cart, momentarily distracting everyone. I request water, my throat raw from crying.
“Make it two,” a voice says from beside me, and I nearly jump out of my skin.
Kane has somehow slipped into the empty seat next to mine while his friends were distracted by the drink service.
Up close, his eyes are an unsettling shade of blue—too bright, too perceptive despite the alcohol clouding them.
A funny feeling hits my stomach as my eyes catch on the dark ink sprawling across his knuckles, snaking up his forearms in elaborate patterns.
Heavy silver rings glint on three fingers, one with what appears to be a Celtic knot. This man is trouble.
“What are you doing?” I hiss, clutching my imaginary pearls on my chest.
“Being a good Samaritan,” he says, his Irish accent more pronounced up close. “You look like you’ve had a day from hell.”
“Kane!” Declan has noticed his escape and is half-risen from his seat, murder in his eyes.
Kane ignores him, focusing entirely on me. “Whatever he did, he’s not worth it.”
I blink in surprise. “What?”
“The guy. The one who made you cry since leaving Pearson airport. We are clear across the Atlantic, and you’re still crying. He ain’t worth your tears.” He leans closer, and I can smell the alcohol on his breath as he lowers his voice. “Trust me, I know worthless men. I am one.”
Despite everything, a startled laugh escapes me. “That’s your comforting line? I’m worthless too?”
He grins, a lopsided, charming thing that probably works wonders on women who haven’t just discovered their husband sleeping with their sister. “Honesty’s all I’ve got going for me at the moment.”
The flight attendant arrives with our waters, eyeing Kane suspiciously. “Sir, I believe your assigned seat is across the aisle.”
“Just comforting a fellow passenger,” he says smoothly. “Turbulence has her nervous.”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, not wanting to get drawn further into whatever this is. “He was just leaving.”
Kane looks wounded, but before he can protest, Declan and the other man appear beside our seats.
“Sorry about our friend,” the longer dark-haired one says, grabbing Kane’s arm. “Rory Hennessey,” he introduces himself with a nod. “And this is Declan. We’re taking his idiot cousin to Ireland for... family business.”
“Family intervention, more like,” Declan mutters, yanking Kane to his feet.
“I was just being nice,” Kane protests as they drag him away. “Unlike some people, I notice when someone’s in pain.”
His words hit unexpectedly hard. I’ve spent the last five years with a man who never noticed—or never cared—when I was hurting. Who made me feel invisible in my own marriage. And now here’s this drunk stranger who saw my pain from across an airplane aisle.
The two women from their group are watching with expressions caught between amusement and mortification. The petite one—her wheat-colored hair cropped short in a style I suddenly envy—catches my eye and mouths “Sorry” before turning back to her companion.
I should be annoyed at the intrusion, but instead, I feel oddly seen for the first time in ages. Not that I’d ever admit it to the drunken Irishman now being forcibly restrained in his seat across the aisle.
Declan has taken the seat directly next to Kane, effectively blocking any further escape attempts. The woman with auburn hair leans forward, saying something to Kane that makes him scowl. Whatever family business they’re heading to Ireland for, it doesn’t seem like a happy reunion.
I turn back to my window, watching the endless darkness of the Atlantic below. My life has been shattered into pieces, but at least I had some in-flight entertainment. I almost smile at the absurdity of it all.
The plane dips again, the seatbelt sign flashing on as we hit another rough patch. I grip my armrest, breathing deeply through the turbulence.
“Not a good flyer?” a soft voice asks.
I turn to find the petite, plump woman now in the seat beside me, her expression kind but cautious.
“I’m Wren,” she says. “Declan’s wife. I wanted to apologize properly for Kane. He’s... well, he’s Kane.”
“Kori,” I offer, unsure why I’m giving my real name. “And it’s fine. Really.”
Wren studies me with intelligent eyes. “No, it’s not. But that’s not just about Kane, is it?”
I look away, uncomfortable with her perception. “Just having a rough day.”
“Those look like more than rough day tears,” she observes. “More like life-altering catastrophe tears. I’ve cried those before.”
Something about her straightforward manner breaks through my defenses. “My husband’s been sleeping with my sister,” I blurted out, then immediately regretted it. “Sorry. You don’t need to hear that.”
“Shit,” Wren says, her eyes widening. “That’s... wow.”
“Yeah.” I attempt a smile that I’m sure looks like a grimace. “Found out yesterday. Abandoned our fifth anniversary party and got on this plane instead.”
“Good for you,” she says with surprising fierceness. “Running away is underrated when the alternative is murder.”
This time, my laugh is genuine. “I considered it. But bloodstains are hard to remove from cream carpet.”
“That’s why you go with hardwood,” she says, completely serious. “Much more practical for crime scenes.”
I find myself staring at her, wondering if she is pulling my leg or if she was serious. I look over to her family and wonder if they are killers. And then I feel myself genuinely smiling for the first time in twenty-four hours. Wouldn’t Mark shit if he found out I was talking to the mob.
“First time in Ireland?” she asks, changing the subject with surprising tact.
“Second,” I say. “I went once in college. Staying at a friend’s cottage near the coast.”
“Sounds peaceful,” Wren says. “Just what you need, I imagine.”
I nod. “That’s the plan. Hide out, lick my wounds, figure out what the hell I’m going to do with my life now.”
Across the aisle, Kane is watching us, his expression unreadable. When our eyes meet, he doesn’t look away. Something is unsettling about his focus, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. I break the contact first, turning back to Wren.
“What takes you all to Ireland?” I ask, more to be polite than out of genuine curiosity.
A shadow crosses her face. “Family emergency. Declan’s father... well, it’s complicated.”
“Family usually is,” I say, thinking of Lana’s betrayal.
“You have no idea,” Wren mutters. She glances back at her group, then stands. “I should get back. But Kori? Whatever you’re running from—sometimes the best revenge is living well.”
As she returns to her seat, I notice Kane still watching me. When Wren sits down beside the auburn-haired woman, they both glance my way, then begin whispering. Great. I’m officially the in-flight gossip.
I turn back to my window, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. Below us, dawn is breaking over the Atlantic, streaking the horizon with pink and gold. In a few hours, we’ll land in Ireland, and I’ll begin whatever comes next.
For the first time since seeing those photos, I feel a flicker of something that might be hope. Or maybe it’s just the relief of distance—every mile of ocean between me and Mark feels like another small piece of freedom.
I close my eyes, exhaustion finally winning over anxiety. As I drift toward sleep, I’m vaguely aware of Kane’s voice across the aisle, slurred but insistent: “I’m telling you, Declan, that woman needs our help.”
“The only thing she needs,” comes Declan’s firm reply, “is for you to leave her the hell alone.”
In my half-conscious state, I find myself oddly grateful to them both—to Kane for seeing my pain, and to Declan for respecting it enough to keep him away.