The intercom crackles with Henry, our pilot’s voice, announcing our departure. I’d greeted him earlier with the usual pleasantries. He’s been flying for my family for nearly a decade, and he and my father play golf together. While my family technically owns the plane, Henry freelances for a couple of families in their social circle, and Hillary, along with a few other flight attendants, is his employee.
Hillary efficiently glides between us, her uniform pressed to precision—a full-service flight attendant catering to the only two passengers on this admittedly gratuitous private jet. She briefs us on safety instructions, never losing her smile, then disappears into the cockpit for the remainder of takeoff. Rose and I maintain our silent standoff through it all.
Eventually, once the plane levels out, Hillary’s voice breaks the quiet. “Would you like a drink?” Red-painted lips, not a single blonde hair out of place, pulled so tight against her scalp it looks like a varnished helmet. She’s sexy in the way wealthy men appreciate—attentive without being intrusive, available without being obvious. I accept a glass of whiskey, nodding my thanks. I watch as she greets Rose, who requests coffee without looking in my direction. Even from this distance, that throaty voice of hers cuts through the cabin.
Hillary retreats to the galley, the click of the partition door signaling our privacy. I glance out the window at the endless expanse of clouds below. Somewhere east of here, a storm brews over the ocean. Pearl insists the weather won’t affect the wedding, and while I have my doubts, the laws of nature might simply bend to her will. Nothing stops that woman once she’s set her mind to something. I’ve always admired her tenacity.
I sip my whiskey, letting the smoky taste coat my tongue before swallowing, burning a path down my throat that fails to distract me from the tension in the cabin. I glance over at Rose. Her eyes are closed, but every few seconds her lips twitch. She’s not asleep. Pretending, maybe, so she doesn’t have to talk to me or thank me for the ride.
Turning back to my laptop, I try to focus on the advanced aortic repair case my father forwarded me this morning. I read the same sentence five times in a row because every time she shifts her body in my periphery, it pulls my attention away before I drag my eyes back to the screen, losing my place inthe paragraph. Groaning, I scrub my hand over my face. This is going to be a long fucking three hours.
One week away from the hospital after racing through residency feels like abandonment, as if a few days off will make me lose focus.
I expect I’ll get a few more cases from my father before the week is up. And when I return, I’ll eat, sleep, and breathe my work, just as I was raised to do. It’s been this way since I was old enough to pronouncecardiovascular. When my classmates were busy worrying about prom dates, my father had me memorizing heart valves and various pathophysiologies like coronary artery disease and aortic aneurysms.
The hours suck. It’s grueling, punishing work. I feel like I haven’t slept since I was eighteen. But fucking hell, I love it—the feel of a scalpel in my palm, that perfect moment of a clean cut, revealing layers beneath the skin I’ve spent a lifetime studying. I don’t know how to function without work—something my travel mate knows nothing about.
Rosaria is entitled, lazy, and more arrogant than she’s got any right to be. And as much as I probably need a vacation—my first week off in over a year—I’m already stressed enough without adding her into the mix.
Pearl’s been up my ass about taking time off. Her father’s wedding happened to fall on the one window in my calendar I could manage, so I caved and agreed to go. He’s a good man, and Pearl is one of my oldest friends. Our whole close-knit group of friends will be there. Pearl somehow manages to keep us intact despite our chaotic lives, so I owe her this at least. I’m just not sure I even know how to take time off anymore.
There’s nothing urgent, but I keep scrolling through my work anyway—case notes, imaging, operative histories—hoping the weight of it will crowd her out. It isn’t working.
Fuck it. I slam my laptop closed.
Giving in to scathing commentary isn’t exactly a productive use of my time, but she’s stolen all my focus. I call out loud enough to carry over the white noise of the cabin.
“Last time I saw you, I distinctly remember you calling jet-owning billionairesthe destruction of humankind and a blight on the earth.” I take a slow sip of my top-shelf Blanton’s, swirling the amber liquid in the glass.
“You are,” she replies in a bored tone, lifting her head off the window.
“Says the woman currently enjoying the comforts of a private jet.” My eyebrows arch as I gesture around us.
I can practically hear her teeth grinding. “I’m offsetting your carbon footprint, you unmitigated ass.”
You’d think, with the level of animosity between us, that we’d spent more than five separate occasions together, the first two being simple introductions in passing. But Rose has a way of getting under my skin ever since I first laid eyes on her.
“And yet here you are.” I look directly at her without preparing myself, and it’s searing how attractive she is. Especially with that scowl, which deepens the more I twist the knife. Her eyes flash, cheeks flushed with anger that only accentuates her high cheekbones. The more she glares, the more I want to provoke her. “Funny how principles evaporate when you’re inconvenienced. Suddenly my private jet doesn’t seem so wasteful after all.”
Hillary interrupts us then, another vacant grin plastered on her face. I wonder if she drops the look each time she slips behind closed doors with Henry.
“Mr. Wells, may I refill your drink?”
“Please,” I say, handing the glass over. I watch as she busies herself, refilling my whiskey, taking away Rose’s empty mug.
“My flight got canceled,” Rose explains. “It’s my father’s wedding, and you were already flying this monstrosity. Youwere going anyway, and the only thing staying behind would have done is upset my father. So yes, I’m on your stupid plane. Thanks for the lift.”
“Thank you, Hillary,” I say as she hands me back my drink. Hillary tidies up and slips back into the cockpit.
After Roger called me this morning and asked if I’d allow his daughter to catch a ride, I lost my appetite and have been running on coffee for the last three hours. Paired with the whiskey, and my first real day off in months, I’m feeling a little loose-lipped.
“Rosaria—” I start, but, predictably, she cuts me off.
“It’s pronounced Ro-sah-ria, you uncultured fool,” she corrects with a throaty start, ending with a rolling R. In its native Portuguese, it’s a surprisingly difficult name to pronounce correctly. She knows this, of course. If I were anyone else, she’d let it slide. “Aren’t you supposed to be educated?”
I smile. “Obviously more than you. How’s your career doing these days, by the way? Oh, wait—you don’t have one.”
She glances out the window, jaw tightening. We’re deep in the clouds, there’s nothing to see, she just doesn’t want to look at me. I should feel bad about being such an asshole to Rose, but the last time I saw her at Pearl’s charity gala this past spring—crystal flute of champagne in one hand, draped in vintage Chanel—she was lecturing about the evils of capitalism, wealth inequality and the plight of the working class. The hypocrisy made something in me just snap, and I’ve since given up the pretense of being nice to her, no matter how much I adore Pearl or admire their father.
