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Stella
“Thank you, Fred,” I say, flashing my driver a grateful smile. I leave my Bentley and stride across the tarmac to the waiting aircraft, crushing the stress ball in my hand repeatedly.
Ignoring the surprised look on the ramp agent’s face, I start mounting the steps. I’m sure he wasn’t expecting me to show up alone.
“Mr. Fairchild—” he begins.
“Is on his way,” I interrupt, throwing the comment behind me as I continue up the steps.
The pilot and crew don’t look surprised, so I know they have already been updated about Ryan and me arriving separately.
I was not going to get into the same car with him after his epic meltdown. From his reaction, you’d think I unearthed the corpse he was hiding in there.
I heave a sigh of relief when I see how spacious the aircraft interior is. We’re taking the bigger jet. All the better to avoid speaking to the man. I find the spot furthest from the door, all the way in the back, and take one of the large seats.
What was it about his room that was so off-limits?
So, his room is a tad messy, big deal. He should see mine.
Although that in itself is telling, considering he keeps the rest of his home freakishly clean and organized.
And he must have a thing for grey tops with inscriptions about Ivy League colleges. Maybe the man’s dream was to attend one? Why didn’t he?
And what the hell was that old painting?
It was a hauntingly beautiful one. An oil painting of Ryan’s muscled back with a woman hugging him from the front. Except that his torso completely blocked out the woman, so only the woman’s pale, tattooed delicate hands on his back were visible.
It represented both tender intimacy and painful detachment. Instead of hugging the woman back or even looking at her, Ryan’s arms hung free at his sides while he looked back over his shoulder.
I feel the stupid tears threatening to return. How many women have desperately clung to him not realizing he can’t be held down? Am I a fool for believing that he has more to give?
Ryan chooses that moment to arrive.
“Welcome, Mr. Fairchild,” the crew greets while my knuckles whiten against the squishy stress ball.
I look through the windows, fighting back tears as he slowly makes his way down the cabin. Thankfully, he takes one of the seats furthest from me, right across the cabin, and doesn’t say anything to me.
When the plane takes off and there’s nothing more to see outside, I sit back stiffly. I smooth the prim black skirt I’d chosen to make a good impression on Anita Brodkin. Then I fish out a style magazine I brought along for the sole purpose of ignoring Ryan and try to lose myself in it.
Usually, Ryan and I would chat, laugh, and argue nonstop, instead an awkward silence stretches in the cabin. When it becomes too oppressive, I hazard a look in his direction and see him sprawled on his seat, watching me with an unreadable expression.
I quickly return my attention to my magazine, but knowing he’s staring at me from across the cabin is more than a little unnerving.
“Mr. Fairchild… Mrs. Fairchild,” a crew member comes in with a trolley, and I almost sigh in relief. “What would you like to drink?”
“Baby?”
I grit my teeth against his melting tenderness. “Nothing, thanks.”
“Nothing for me too,” Ryan declines.
She’s about to leave when Ryan stops her. “Annalise? Tell the crew under no circumstances should we be disturbed, alright?”
“Understood, Mr. Fairchild.” She scurries off.
Ryan stands and slowly stalks toward me until his shadow falls over my magazine.
I look up.
