PART ONE
The gentle hum of the jet engines as we pierced through the clouds at 30,000 feet was usually my calming music, but that day it sounded like the ticking of a time bomb. I smoothed down my flight attendant uniform, making sure the silk scarf at my neck was tied perfectly, and took a deep breath. Five years.
It had been five years since I was thrown out of that house with nothing but the clothes on my back.
Five years since I was forced to believe my husband, Ethan Miller, had been incinerated in a tragic car accident on the interstate here in the United States. Five years I had spent crawling out of the abyss of poverty—washing dishes in a greasy spoon diner, studying foreign languages during my short breaks—until I could finally stand here in the business-class cabin of a major international airline, flying in and out of places like LAX.
“Chloe, could you please assist the passengers in seats 1A and 1B? They requested black coffee, no sugar,” my lead flight attendant, Angela, said, snapping me out of my thoughts.
“Of course, Angela,” I replied briskly.
I prepared the silver tray, the rich aroma of Arabica coffee filling my nostrils. With the measured steps I had practiced hundreds of times, I walked toward the front row. Seats 1A and 1B were the most exclusive in business class.
Their occupants were certainly not ordinary people.
When I arrived beside seat 1A, a man was staring at his tablet, reading complex stock market charts. He wore an expensive charcoal-gray suit.
His hair was slicked back neatly, and a gold watch encircled his wrist. “Excuse me, sir.
Here is your coffee,” I said softly, putting on my best professional smile.
The man didn’t look up. He just gave an arrogant nod while continuing to scroll through his high-tech gadget. But as I was about to place the porcelain cup on his tray table, he tilted his head slightly toward the window.
The sunlight hit his profile.
My heart stopped. My world seemed to collapse in an instant.
The tray in my hands shook so violently that the small spoon on it clinked loudly against the saucer. It was not just a resemblance.
It was him.
The sharp nose, slightly crooked at the tip. The small mole under his left ear. The strong jawline I used to caress every morning before he left for his job as a warehouse worker, when we were still living paycheck to paycheck.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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