Chapter 3 - Trapped at Thirty-Two Thousand Feet
The ascent was smooth, but to me, the cabin felt like a suffocating cage. The engines hummed with a steady, low drone that vibrated through the floorboards, matching the pounding headache pulsing behind my eyes.
Every time the seatbelt sign chimed, my body flinched. Every time a flight attendant walked down the aisle offering complimentary drinks and pretzels, I shrank back into the shadow of the window seat, terrified that Brandon might come back out to check on his new fiancée.
"Pretzels or cookies for the little guy?" the flight attendant asked pleasantly, stopping her cart at row 24.
Toby kept his face firmly planted in my stomach, refusing to look up.
"Nothing for us, thank you," I managed to squeeze past my throat. My voice sounded hollow, like a stranger speaking through an old radio.
The attendant noticed Toby’s trembling shoulders and gave a sympathetic smile. "Aww, is it his first time flying? Don't worry, honey! We have the best captain in the entire fleet up front today. You heard him earlier—he’s an absolute sweetheart!"
A bitter, iron taste filled my mouth. I dug my fingernails into the palms of my hands so hard that I felt the skin break. "Yes," I choked out. "An absolute sweetheart."
She smiled and moved along down the aisle.
Once she was gone, I pulled out my tablet with shaking fingers and connected to the in-flight Wi-Fi. My mind was racing, demanding answers. How long had this been going on? Who was Elena Vance? How could a man live two entirely separate lives without leaving a single trace?
I opened a search browser and typed the name: Elena Vance Minneapolis.
Within seconds, the screen populated with results. Elena Vance was a thirty-four-year-old high-end real estate developer based in the Twin Cities. Her social media profile showed an immaculate life of architectural showcases, charity galas, and weekend trips to Aspen.
And then I saw it.
A public photo album posted three weeks ago titled: “New Horizons with my Captain.”
I clicked the link with a trembling thumb.
There was Brandon. He was dressed in casual linen shirts, dining at waterfront restaurants on Lake Minnetonka, sitting beside Elena with his arm draped possessively over her shoulder. In one photo, they were clinking champagne glasses in front of a newly constructed modern home.
The caption written by Elena crushed whatever remained of my sanity:
“Building our dream home with the strongest, most resilient man I know. After losing his late wife to illness years ago, Brandon never thought he’d find love again. Here’s to second chances, healing, and forever.”
A gasp escaped my throat.
His late wife.
Brandon hadn't just told this woman he was single. He hadn't even claimed we were divorced. He had murdered me in his fiction. He had invented a tragic backstory where I had died of some fictional illness, turning himself into a grieving, noble widower searching for a second chance at happiness.
And Toby? Where was Toby in this fantasy?
I scrolled further down. There was no mention of a son anywhere. He had completely erased his own seven-year-old child from his existence to make himself more appealing to a wealthy, glamorous bachelorette.
"Mom? What is that?" Toby asked quietly, noticing the light from my tablet screen.
I quickly shut the cover, snapping it closed. "Nothing, sweetie. Just checking the time."
"Mom, are we going to see Dad when we get off the plane?" Toby looked up at me, his eyes red and swollen. In his small hands, he was still clutching the crumpled drawing of the airplane. "Can I still give him my drawing? Maybe if he sees it, he’ll remember that we love him."
The sheer, innocent tragedy of his question broke something inside me. The sorrow and shock that had held me paralyzed for the last hour suddenly crystallized into something entirely different: cold, calculating, unyielding rage.
"No, Toby," I said softly, smoothing down his hair and looking directly into his innocent face. "You don't have to prove your love to someone who threw it away. But yes, we are going to see your dad the second this plane touches the ground."
The pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom once more.
May you like
"Flight attendants, prepare the cabin for arrival. We’ll be on the ground in Minneapolis in about ten minutes. Thanks for flying with us today, and to my future bride in 3A... get ready for the rest of your life."
I unbuckled my seatbelt the very moment the plane taxied to the gate.
