Chapter eleven
Alexandria's POV
My fingers dig into the armrests, gripping so tightly that my nails threaten to pierce the leather. My arms tremble with the effort, but I refuse to let go. If I just hold on tight enough, maybe I can keep myself grounded. Maybe I can pretend I'm not in a metal coffin being hurled into the sky.
I squeeze my eyes shut and press myself as far back into the seat as possible, as if that will make me disappear.
Then it happens.
The plane lurches forward, its wheels leaving the ground, and a horrible drop in my stomach makes me gasp.
We're ascending.
Higher.
Higher.
38,000 feet in the air.
My breaths grow short and shallow, panic slamming into me like a tidal wave.
What if we crash?
I picture it in my mind so vividly that my body reacts as if it's real—the deafening screech of metal, the oxygen masks dropping uselessly, the weightless free fall before we slam into the ground, nothing but fire and debris left in our wake.
I clutch the seat harder. My knuckles are so white they burn.
People always laugh when I tell them I have aviophobia, but how can anyone enjoy this? How can anyone feel comfortable being this high up, completely powerless to what happens next?
It's not like a car.
If something goes wrong on the road, you can pull over. Get out. Call for help.
Here?
There's nothing.
No escape.
Just falling.
I shudder violently as nausea rises in my throat. My chest feels like it's being squeezed by an invisible fist, so tight I can barely breathe. I force myself to take deep breaths, dragging in the stale, recycled air of the cabin. It does nothing.
The sleeping pills will kick in soon.
They have to.
I just need to hold on until then.
From the other cabin, laughter echoes. Deep, rich male voices. Vincenzo, his father, and Angelo.
They're having a great time.
Unlike me, they're completely at ease, probably sipping whiskey in their leather recliners while making crude jokes I wouldn't understand.
And they're not alone.
The two perfectly gorgeous blonde flight attendants are in there too, tending to them like they exist for no other reason.
I don't even want to think about what else they might be doing.
I shouldn't care.
I tell myself it doesn't bother me, but the way my stomach knots tells a different story.
Who even needs two private hostesses?
They were beautiful—perfectly beautiful. The kind of women who belonged on magazine covers, not cramped airplane cabins.
Tall, leggy, blue-eyed. Men's fantasies brought to life.
And then there was me.
I was attractive in my own way, I supposed. But I wasn't them.
I never fit the perfect mold. Never had men fawning over me the way they did for girls like that. The ones with golden hair and delicate features.
Even in school, I was never the one boys whispered about in the hallways. They always went for the pretty girls. The blonde, blue-eyed girls.
While they ignored me.
Or, worse, hated me.
I was always different. Not just because of my wealth, but because I never truly belonged anywhere.
At the elite private school, I was resented. At the public school I begged to go to, I was feared.
No one knew how to treat me.
Some wanted to use me for my family's power. Others wanted to tear me down until I felt like nothing.
And then there were the ones who hated me simply for what I was.
Italian and Mexican.
I never understood it.
Are we not all the same beneath the skin?
The curtain separating me from the men suddenly slides open.
My eyes snap open, heart lurching as I glance up.
One of the hostesses stands before me, arms crossed, lips twisted in a sneer.
"Do you want something to eat?" she asks, her voice syrupy sweet in a way that feels anything but kind.
I shake my head quickly, not trusting myself to speak.
She scoffs, stepping closer. She leans down so her lips are just inches from my ear.
"I don't know who the fuck you are, slut, but back off. Mr. Lombardo doesn't want you."
For a moment, I just stare at her.
The words don't fully register at first.
Then, slowly, rage flickers to life inside me.
I let go of the armrest long enough to push her back—just enough to make my point.
"Oh, honey," I murmur, voice sharp as a blade, "I could get you fired for calling me that."
She just giggles.
Rolls her eyes, like I'm a child throwing a tantrum.
"You are nothing," she purrs, eyes glinting with cruelty. "Don't you get that?"
I inhale deeply, containing the storm inside me.
Then, I meet her gaze head-on.
"You need to understand something," I say, voice dangerously low. "I am more than you will ever be to Mr. Lombardo. So either respect me, or I swear to God, I will have you thrown off this plane before we land."
I pause, letting my words sink in.
Her smirk falters.
I tilt my head, raising a brow in silent warning.
Slowly, reluctantly, she steps back, turning sharply on her heel before disappearing behind the curtain.
I close my eyes and rest my head against the seat.
The pills will kick in soon.
The sooner I pass out, the sooner this nightmare of a flight will be over.
---
I wake up groggily, my body heavy with sleep.
For a moment, I don't know where I am.
Then I realize—I'm not in my seat.
I'm in a bed.
My stomach drops.
I blink, vision blurry, as I push myself upright. Through the open curtain, I can see the seat I had been in before—seatbelt still securely fastened.
My breath catches.
Someone moved me.
I explicitly planned to stay in my seat, where I felt safe.
Now I'm here, vulnerable and exposed.
I push myself up and stumble back to my seat, sleep still fogging my mind.
Just as I sit down, the seatbelt icon flickers on.
And then—
The plane shudders violently.
My body lurches forward, and a bloodcurdling scream rips from my throat before I can stop it.
The turbulence is worse than before.
Panic seizes my chest, squeezing my lungs so tightly I can't draw in air. I grip the armrests like a lifeline, but it's not enough. Nothing feels solid.
Tears stream down my face as I sob uncontrollably, shaking from head to toe.
I whimper. Beg for it to stop.
Normally, I'd have someone to hold onto.
Someone to squeeze my hand, to ground me when the fear becomes unbearable.
But right now?
I'm completely alone.
— — —
Happy Sunday guys!