13. Sloane #2
For a while, that’s enough.
My phone vibrates inside my bag. I almost ignore it, but then it vibrates again, so I reach down, pull it out, and glance at the screen.
It’s a text from Ethan. A message preview appears beneath my brother’s name.
Call me when you can. Hospital called again.
My stomach knots.
I swipe the notification away too late.
Vadim has already seen it. “Who was that?”
“It’s nothing.”
His gaze settles on me. I immediately resent how easily he makes silence feel like interrogation.
“What?”
“You looked worried.”
“I always look worried when my brother texts.”
“Your brother,” he repeats. “Why?”
I hesitate. This is not something I normally discuss with passengers.
Then again, Vadim has had his mouth on my breasts and carried me out of an assault in his arms, so perhaps ordinary professional boundaries are already dead.
“He’s sick.”
Vadim’s expression shifts. “How sick?”
“I don’t want to get into it.”
He nods once. To my surprise, he doesn’t press. The lack of pressure makes me want to say more.
“He has been for a while,” I add. “Treatment gets expensive, and insurance finds creative ways not to cover things once you need it most.”
“That’s why you needed this assignment.”
It’s not a question.
I look out the window. “Partly.”
“And why losing your job mattered so much.”
“Losing a job generally matters.”
“You know what I mean.”
I sigh. “My family has had money problems for years. My mom works, I work, Ethan used to work when he could, but things pile up. Medical bills are good at that.”
Vadim’s thumb moves once over the back of my hand. “What illness?”
“I said I don’t want to get into it.”
He nods again. “All right.”
That surprises me more than if he had demanded the answer.
I glance at him. “You’re not going to ask?”
“You told me not to.”
“Since when does that stop you?”
“Occasionally I’m capable of restraint.”
I think about the back seat thirty seconds ago. “Debatable.”
His mouth almost curves.
I think about everything that has happened today. It’s unbelievable that less than twenty-four hours ago I was sitting on my bed, unemployed.
The hospital was a blur too. The doctor kept Vadim for a little over an hour, cleaned and stitched the graze, ordered imaging to make sure the bullet had done nothing more serious, then discharged him with painkillers, antibiotics, and instructions to rest. Vadim listened to those instructions with the expression of a man being mildly inconvenienced by his own mortality.
He refused the wheelchair they brought, ignored the nurse who told him not to strain the wound, and walked out under his own power while Anton handled the paperwork and security cleared the private exit.
I followed mostly because I still didn’t quite trust him not to tear the stitches open before we reached the car.
By the time we climbed into the back seat, he was already acting as though getting shot was something that happened between appointments rather than a reason to slow down.
The car crosses a wide boulevard, and Bucharest opens around us in a way I was not prepared for.
I’ve been to dozens of cities as cabin crew, though most of them exist in my memory as airports, hotel lobbies, shuttle routes, and whatever I could fit into twenty-four-hour layovers.
Paris is a croissant eaten half-asleep beside the Seine before reporting back to Charles de Gaulle.
Singapore is the view from a hotel pool I used for exactly forty minutes.
New York is not the skyline, but crew security at five in the morning.
Travel becomes strange when it’s your job. You simply pass through a city.
Bucharest feels different tonight, because I was never supposed to have time to see it at all.
The streets are broad and unexpectedly grand, lined with old European buildings whose facades glow amber beneath the streetlights.
Some are ornate, with columns and balconies that look almost Parisian, while others bear the heavy gray geometry of another era.
Cafés remain open behind tall windows, their terraces half-full despite the hour.
Orthodox domes rise unexpectedly between apartment blocks, and farther ahead I catch glimpses of glass towers reflecting the traffic.
I like this city.
Then Marek turns onto a quieter avenue. The buildings become larger. More elegant. We pass iron gates, embassies, dark gardens. Finally, the car slows beneath a porte cochère glowing with warm light.
I look up.
The hotel is enormous.
Not a chain hotel enormous, either. This is something different.
Its stone facade stretches across most of the block, pale limestone rising several stories above us with tall arched windows and carved balconies.
Flags move lazily above the entrance. Two doormen in dark coats step forward before the car has fully stopped, and through the glass doors I can see a lobby of marble floors, chandeliers, and floral arrangements large enough to require their own irrigation system.
I stare. “This is where you’re staying?”
Vadim looks at the building as though he has never considered it noteworthy. “Yes.”
“Of course it is.”
Marek gets out first. A doorman opens my side. Cold night air rushes in.
I climb out slowly, smoothing my skirt automatically. The habit is ridiculous. I have spent years walking into beautiful hotels in uniform, pulling a crew suitcase behind me while trying not to look impressed.
There’s always a crew entrance. A discounted room block. A lobby we cross quickly because someone else is paying and we’re not supposed to linger near the guests.
This is different.
Nobody redirects us. Nobody asks for identification.
The hotel manager himself appears before Vadim has taken three steps. “Mr. Chernovar.”
Vadim barely acknowledges him. His hand settles lightly at the small of my back.
The gesture should feel possessive.
It does. The problem is that I’m beginning to like it.
We walk into the lobby together, beneath a chandelier that looks like it could crush a small car.
I suddenly become acutely aware of my wrinkled uniform, my tired face, the fading mark on my cheek, and the fact that less than an hour ago I was moaning into the neck of the silver-haired man beside me while one of his employees pretended not to listen.
This is officially the strangest layover of my career.