Page 41 of Prince of Masks
I ignore the swell of people invading my fleetingly peaceful space, and I read. The background noise of luggage being tucked away into the narrow cupboards, of seats creaking as weight is shifted around, the murmurs of conversation, it tries to distract me from the pages on my lap.
Then, above the pages, movement rustles by me.
I look up from under my lashes as trouser legs pass me, then another pair.
I lift my frown higher and see Oliver making his way to the bathroom through the door—and Dray fucking Sinclair moving for the seat beside mine.
My throat thickens. A ball, wedged.
Dray drops into the seat with an air of exhaustion.
I blink at him once, twice, and he doesn’t notice, not as he lifts his hand to summon the attendant.
Before the suited attendant can squeeze by the partition, Dray orders, “Three teas. One unsweetened almond milk, two skim, and one sugar.”
My mouth puckers.
The glare I aim at him is swift and cautious before I quickly throw it over the shoulder-high divider.
There, Mr Younge and Mr Burns push their personal bags into the storage cupboards.
So I guess they are taking the middle section now that they have been pushed out of this one.
I crane my neck to look across the plane, but I can only make out the top of my father’s head, the sleek black hair combed into place.
My breath comes out in a huff.
I sink back into my chair and keep my cheek to Dray.
It does little to remove him from my sight.
With the angle of the chairs turned towards each other, but sharing a wall, he is in my peripherals as he tugs off his black shades, then tosses them to the small table wedged between us.
They clatter on landing.
Dray’s cold voice is a snake moving around me, “How has your vacation been?”
Out the corner of my eye, I catch movement. He pinches the button of his suit jacket, unhooking it, then peels it off.
My jaw ticks.
I keep my eyes on the pages of my book, but I don’t read the words, I don’t even see them beyond a blur.
I ignore him.
“Such a sudden departure,” he says and hangs the suit jacket on the hook next to his chair. “You were missed.”
I chew on the vile words flooding my mouth.
Before anything can spit out of me, before I can dig myself into another hole with Dray, the speaker dug into the ceiling starts to crinkle, like paper in a fist.
Then comes the usual take-off ‘please be seated for your safety’ announcement.
I tune it out.
I’m not the only one to dismiss the pilot.
Oliver takes his time in the bathroom, and I don’t doubt he’s enjoying a private space to call Serena before we’re in the air.
