Chapter 24
chapter
twenty-four
Bands of fluorescent light reflected off polished tile, waxed to an impossible sheen.
I glanced up at the gate display. Harsh yellow-on-black text glared back at me.
ATLANTA | DL335 | 08:05 | ON TIME
I pulled out my boarding pass and checked it again.
As if it would have changed.
For the first time, I noticed my seat: 38 B.
I shook my head. The company had flown me business-class on the way over. Now I was heading home in coach. And a middle seat on top of everything. Lovely.
I chose a chair at the far end of the gate area, away from the man-spreaders and the feral children with sticky iPads.
I set my laptop bag on my lap, slid my passport and boarding pass into the front pocket, and tried to reconstruct a version of myself that hadn’t spent the past twenty-four hours being broken and rebuilt, fiber by fiber.
My phone buzzed in the back pocket of my jeans. I fished it out, holding my breath as I unlocked the screen.
I let the breath deflate just as quickly.
No message. No call. Just a notification from Delta tracking my luggage.
I opened up my text thread with Luka and stared at his final messages:
Get out
NOW
He’d meant Richard’s office.
Not this.
Less than twenty-four hours ago.
Might as well have been a lifetime.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, typing and deleting messages:
I made it to the gate. Thanks for the ride.
Delete.
My flight is on time. I’ll let you know if I’m ever back this way.
Delete.
Thank you. For everything.
I considered sending that one. Then I deleted it and repocketed my phone.
The overhead speakers pinged and crackled. I perked up. Then a man’s smooth, polite voice announced boarding for a flight to Amsterdam. I sank back into my molded plastic seat.
I picked at the plastic rim of my to-go coffee cup and tried to focus on the future.
On what I would say to Greg—how I would make this whole situation sound less like a disaster and more like the violation it was.
How I would convince him what a monster Richard was without it coming off as a desperate scramble to save myself.
I was no stranger to the corporate boys’ table.
Speak their language. Bullet points. Action plan. Leave feelings outside the door.
Speaking of doors…
How the hell had Richard gotten into my hotel room?
My pulse hammered in my ears.
And what would have happened if I’d gone back there last night?
His office flashed in my brain. Closed door. No witnesses. That syrupy smile, like he was doing me a favor. His hand snaking under my skirt.
And what would have happened if Luka hadn’t pulled the fire alarm…
A tap on the seat beside me. I flinched.
A mousy woman in her thirties hovered over my shoulder, backpack slung forward, face a blur of sleep deprivation and anxiety. “Em, sorry. Is this seat taken?”
I shook my head and shifted my bags, composing some semblance of a smile.
The overhead speakers crackled again.
“We’re ready to begin the boarding process for Delta flight 335 with nonstop service to Atlanta.”
The gate area rearranged itself instantly—businessmen in navy suits snapping upright, moms corralling toddlers and boarding passes, a lanyard-wearing influencer angling her carry-on just so for a selfie.
I tried to picture myself in that lineup—just another anonymous traveler. But my hands betrayed me. Still shaking. Still raw.
I glanced up, scanning the crowd, half-expecting Luka to shove through it. Looming, passionate, reckless enough to sweep me into some corner and snarl that he would never let me go. Like every airport scene in a terrible rom-com.
He didn’t come.