Chapter 2 Little Incident
Coralyn’s POV
“Um—hold on. I’m sorry, I’m late, but can you direct me to where the flight is? I think I’m about to miss my flight.”
I am breathless. Sweating. One emotional twitch away from crying in this airport like a starving newborn who has just discovered betrayal for the first time.
The words tumble out too fast, tripping over each other the same way my morning already has.
The officer behind the desk takes my ticket, scans it slowly, and stares at the screen with the flat expression of a man who has already judged me, sentenced me, and mentally filed the paperwork.
“So,” he says at last, deadpan, “you are about to miss your flight.”
“I did not intend to,” I blurt. “My bus stopped midway on the road, and my paycheck only came in this morning, and then my phone died because I forgot to charge it, and my charger is with my coworker, and I tried to call for a ride but—”
He lifts one hand.
Just one.
It stops me instantly.
“Save it,” he says. “Go catch your flight.”
Relief hits so hard it almost knocks me backward.
“Thank you,” I breathe, already turning.
I run.
I run like the universe is chasing me with a clipboard labeled Consequences. Like if I slow down, everything I’ve been clinging to—the vacation, the quiet, the promise that life can be something other than the Velvet Lantern—will vanish.
I sprint down the hallway, dodging rolling suitcases, parents wrangling toddlers, and one man with exhaustion etched into his bones. My bag thumps against my hip. My lungs burn.
By the time I skid into the gate area, boarding is still open.
Still open.
I nearly sob.
Bless the heavens.
Bless whatever engineer delayed this flight by eight whole minutes.
Bless bureaucracy for once in its miserable life.
I shove my ticket forward with shaking hands and stumble onto the plane.
××××
First class feels like accidentally slipping into the wrong timeline.
The better timeline.
Soft lighting. Cream leather seats wide enough to sleep sideways in. The air smells faintly of citrus and money. Everything is muted, calm, civilized—nothing like the chaos I left behind less than twelve hours ago.
The resort covered half the cost of the upgrade. I fought tooth and nail for the remaining fifty percent, convincing myself it was worth it.
That I was worth it.
Only a few passengers are scattered across the cabin. Some nod politely. Others don’t look up at all. No one stares. No one whistles. No one grabs.
I sink into my seat, and it hugs me like it understands exactly how tired I am.
There’s a footrest. A warm lamp. And a mysterious button panel that looks like it could either give me a massage or eject me directly into the stratosphere.
Before curiosity can kill me, a flight attendant appears with a glossy card.
“These are the package rules for first class guests, Miss Coralyn,” she says pleasantly. “Anything within the listed budget is complimentary.”
Complimentary.
The word feels illegal.
I scan the menu. Sliders. Mini cakes. Fancy snacks with names I can’t pronounce. And their famous Dushamini Shiny Champagne, rumored to look like moonlit water and taste like coconut dipped in heaven.
I order the sliders and the champagne.
They arrive on a tray so beautiful I hesitate to touch it. There’s even a complimentary bottle of wine placed beside it, as if daring me to believe this is real.
I pour a little wine into the glass, swirl it the way rich people do in movies, and lift it—
A sharp kick slams into the back of my seat.
The glass jerks.
Wine splashes.
Cold seeps straight into my dress.
“Oh, for the love of—”
I spring up, staring in horror as the stain spreads like it owns me.
Because of course it does.
Before I can mourn properly, a small hand taps my side.
“I am so, so, so sorry, miss.”
I turn.
A little girl—maybe four or five—stands there clutching a purple stuffed rabbit. Her eyes are wide and glossy with guilt, her lip trembling like she’s one breath away from tears.
“I didn’t mean to kick you,” she whispers. “My bunny was falling, and I tried to catch her, and then my foot just—”
“It’s okay,” I say immediately.
The tears stop mid-formation.
“It is,” I promise gently. “I work in a busy place. I’ve been hit by worse things than tiny feet.”
Her shoulders relax a fraction.
Then a deeper voice cuts in.
“What happened?”
I look up.
The man has deep bottle-green eyes, a hat pulled low, a coat draped casually over one shoulder, and that unmistakable quiet wealth that doesn’t need to announce itself.
“Did she kick you?” he asks.
“I didn’t mean to,” the girl rushes out again.
“It was an accident,” I say quickly. “Really.”
He reaches into the seat pocket, pulls out airline tissues, and extends them toward me.
“Here,” he says. “Let me help.”
For half a second, my brain completely shuts down.
He steps closer and gently dabs at the fabric.
“You don’t need to do that,” I mumble.
“The wine spilled on you,” he replies simply.
The little girl tugs his sleeve.
“Did I ruin her vacation?”
My heart tightens.
“No,” I tell her softly. “Not at all.”
“R-Really?”
He crouches to her level. “No. You didn’t. Because she’s being very kind about it.”
I realize I’m staring and force myself to breathe.
Get it together, Coralyn.
He straightens and looks at me.
“If the stain doesn’t come out, I can cover the cost.”
No arrogance. No performative charm. Just a straightforward offer.
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “Thank you.”
He nods once and returns to his seat.
The little girl gives me a shy smile before disappearing behind her headrest.
I sit back down, dress damp, pulse uneven, very aware of the green eyes still watching me from two rows behind.
I grab the small towel from the seat pocket and dab at the stain.
Dry? Mostly.
Gone? Absolutely not.
The fabric has absorbed the wine, leaving a pinkish mark like a reminder.
I glance down, smoothing it uselessly.
The little girl leans toward me again, holding out a crayoned piece of paper.
“I think you look very pretty.”
Something in my chest cracks.
Before I can respond, the green-eyed man speaks again, voice calm but attentive.
“Are you sure?” he asks. “You don’t want me to replace the dress? Or cover the cost?”
I look back at him.
“No,” I say. “It’s really not necessary.”
Impulse takes over.
I grab the pen tucked into the seat holster and scribble a note on the envelope beneath the drawing.
Tell your brother he doesn’t need to get me a dress, but I appreciate the offer.
I slide it back, put my headset on, and lean into the seat—finally allowing myself to breathe.
The envelope returns.
The handwriting is different now. Clean. Deliberate.
I’m not her brother. I’m her father.