33 - The Altitude Between Us
The glass was cold against Scarlett's forehead—smooth, immaculate, and indifferent.
Outside, clouds drifted in slow motion, endless tides of cream and silver spilling beneath the private jet.
From up here, the world looked weightless.
Roads tangled like threads. Cities blinked faintly under veils of haze.
As a girl, she used to stare through fogged airport windows, pressing her nose against cheap glass, wondering about the people on the jets that never shared her gate. The ones who boarded without queues or plastic boarding passes. The ones who disappeared into clouds.
Now she was one of them.
And yet—
It didn't feel the way she'd imagined.
Her gaze shifted. Across the cabin, Ethan Blackwood sat perfectly still. Husband of six days. Stranger of a lifetime.
The soft click of his laptop keys punctured the silence. His eyes flicked from screen to screen, movements so precise they bordered on surgical. A silver pen glinted in his hand as he signed something with neat, unbroken strokes. Every motion was measured, deliberate.
Scarlett folded her fingers in her lap and studied him.
He looked designed—navy suit molded to a body sculpted by quiet power, charcoal tie perfectly aligned. His dark hair fell in artful disorder, as if even the wind respected him too much to muss him.
Beautiful. Controlled. Cold.
This was supposed to be their honeymoon.
"Ethan," she said softly, testing the air between them. "We're on our honeymoon... could you—just for a little while?"
His fingers paused over the keyboard, but his eyes never lifted.
"Ethan," she said again, the sound of his name more fragile this time.
A slow exhale. "I have work," he replied, voice smooth, neutral. Then—without looking at her—"Do you really think we're the kind of couple who fly for honeymoons?"
The words were almost a smile, but not quite.
Scarlett blinked, trying to find a place for them in her chest. "Maybe not," she murmured, forcing a trace of humor. "But we can still pretend it's a vacation."
He didn't answer. Didn't even glance her way. The faint rhythm of typing resumed, steady and unbothered.
She tried again, a little brighter. "Just an hour? The world won't end if you close the laptop."
He sighed—quietly, as if already regretting the conversation. Adjusting his watch, he turned another page, his focus an unbroken wall.
Right.
She should've known better.
Scarlett's smile faltered. She turned back to the window, watching her reflection ripple against the sky. Disappointment bloomed under her ribs, slow and bruising.
She'd once told herself she understood him—his distance, his control. But understanding didn't make the emptiness easier to live with.
Marriage hadn't changed him. Why had she hoped a honeymoon might?
Gathering her sweater, she rose, the soft carpet swallowing her footsteps as she moved toward the rear of the jet.
If he wanted to marry his spreadsheets, she would find her own way to breathe at thirty thousand feet.
The lounge area was a dream born of old money—cream leather recliners arranged beneath honeyed light, a bar of polished walnut gleaming with crystal decanters. The air carried faint notes of citrus and something rarer—ozone, luxury, maybe both.
Scarlett trailed her fingers over the back of a velvet sofa before sinking into it. The fabric yielded under her like warm water.
She grabbed the remote, flipping through curated choices—thrillers, documentaries, award winners. She stopped on a romance she already knew by heart. A story about two people who found each other against reason, who looked and saw.
As the film began, she felt the tightness in her chest give slightly, though the ache remained—an uninvited guest in her ribcage.
"Mrs. Blackwood?"
She looked up.
A flight attendant stood there, posture perfect, smile practiced. "Would you like anything? A drink or snack, perhaps?"
Scarlett hesitated. "Something light. Maybe pastries?"
"Of course."
Minutes later, the attendant returned with a porcelain tray: golden croissants, candied nuts, slices of glazed fruit. Scarlett took one croissant, tearing it delicately. Butter and sugar filled the air.
Scene by scene, the movie wrapped around her like silk. The engines hummed softly beneath it, steady and low. She curled her legs beneath her, body relaxing for the first time in days.
By the film's third act, the world blurred. Her eyes fluttered once, then twice. The screen's glow danced over her skin as her head tilted to the side. Sleep found her easily, like it had been waiting all along.
Ethan closed his laptop. The soft click echoed louder than it should have. He rolled his shoulders, a small, human sound escaping—bones loosening, breath deepening.
For the first time since takeoff, he noticed the silence. Not just around him. Inside him.
He looked up. Scarlett's seat was empty.
A faint frown crossed his brow.
He stood, adjusting his cufflinks out of habit, and walked down the narrow corridor. The hum of the engines softened, replaced by the faint flicker of film dialogue from the lounge.
Then he saw her.
Scarlett lay curled on the sofa, a strand of hair brushing her cheek. One leg tucked, the other resting lazily off the edge. A half-eaten croissant lay forgotten beside her. Her lips parted slightly as she slept.
Ethan stopped.
Something in his chest tightened—an unfamiliar pull, like a thread catching on fabric. She looked peaceful. Softer than he'd ever let himself notice.
He opened an overhead compartment and pulled down a fleece blanket.
He hesitated. Then, carefully, he draped it over her shoulders.
When his fingers brushed her skin—just barely—he froze. The contact was light as breath, but it burned through him. He withdrew his hand, jaw tense, staring down at the rise and fall of her breathing.
What was he doing?
No answer came.
He straightened, composed the line of his shoulders, and walked back to his seat.
Scarlett woke to credits rolling over a black screen. She stretched, the motion slow, graceful.
A blanket slipped from her lap. Soft. Thick. Expensive.
She frowned. She hadn't brought one. The flight attendant hadn't offered one either.
Her gaze flicked toward the front of the cabin.
Ethan sat where she'd left him, laptop closed, head tilted back. His eyes were shut. His features—so often sharp—had softened in rest. The faintest crease marred his brow.
He looked tired. Human, even.
Something in her stirred.
"You should rest," she said before she could stop herself.
His eyes opened instantly, gray cutting through the dim light.
For a moment, neither spoke.
"You look like you haven't slept in days," she murmured.
A beat of silence. Then another.
He said nothing, but his gaze lingered—long enough to mean something she couldn't name.
Then, wordlessly, he leaned back again and closed his eyes.
Scarlett turned to the window, heart beating harder than before. She didn't know what that meant. Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe everything.
When the jet door opened, the night greeted them in color.
Santorini's air wrapped around Scarlett like warm silk—salt, flowers, and a whisper of sea. The sky was a deep, endless blue, the kind that promised stars before morning.
She inhaled, the scent of honeysuckle and wind filling her lungs.
Ethan walked ahead, his stride brisk, unreadable. Even here—paradise itself—he seemed untouched by the world's softness.
A black Mercedes waited by the curb, its windows mirror-dark. The chauffeur bowed, luggage already handled. Scarlett slipped inside, the cool leather brushing against her bare legs.
The car glided down winding cliff roads. Below, the Aegean shimmered silver, moonlight threading over its surface like silk on water.
Scarlett pressed her palm to the glass, watching whitewashed villas spill across the cliffs like spilled sugar.
This was the view she used to dream of. But dreams looked different when you were alone inside them.
She glanced at Ethan. He was texting, screen light painting his jaw in blue. Focused, silent.
He hadn't looked at her once.
The word honeymoon tasted hollow on her tongue.
The hotel appeared like something carved from myth—columns rising from volcanic stone, gold light spilling from sconces. It glowed against the dark like an ember refusing to die.
Scarlett followed him through glass doors into a lobby of marble and candlelight. Music drifted somewhere unseen—strings soft enough to feel rather than hear.
She expected him to turn toward the reception.
He didn't.
He took a sharp left, disappearing behind a velvet curtain where a private elevator waited.
"Ethan?" she called, hurrying after him. "Aren't we checking in?"
He pressed the elevator button. "I don't need to."
She blinked. "Why not?"
He finally looked at her—eyes cool, unbothered. "Because I own it."
The words landed between them like a challenge, like a confession.
"You—what?" she whispered.
He stepped into the elevator, holding the door open with a single hand. "Coming?"
Scarlett hesitated, pulse loud in her ears, then stepped inside.
The elevator's walls were mirrored. The space moved in silence, soft and seamless. Their reflections stood side by side—his tall and composed, hers small but unyielding.
He looked straight ahead, hands buried in his pockets.
She looked at him. Really looked.
Who was this man she'd married? This storm wrapped in a suit, this mystery with her ring on his hand?
And how had she crossed oceans to lie beside someone she still didn't understand?
The elevator chimed softly, doors sliding open to a corridor bathed in gold light.
The distance between them felt heavier than ever.
But somewhere beneath it—beneath the quiet and control—something had shifted.
A thread. A spark. A beginning they both refused to name.
Fade to black.