DEMI
The wig itches.
It sits on my head like a stranger's hair, a short blonde bob I bought at a shop near my hotel in a rush of paranoia.
Add the oversized sunglasses, the baggy blue jeans, the plain tank top and the sneakers that have seen better years, and I look like a girl nobody would ever turn to look at twice. That is exactly the point.
I drag my suitcase through the arrivals corridor with my chin tucked low. The wheels rattle over the tiles, loud in my ears.
A man in a rumpled suit hurries past me, phone pressed to his ear. A family of five argues sweetly over a stroller. A woman in a hijab hugs her sleeping toddler against her shoulder and doesn't glance at me once.
Nobody shoves a camera in my face. Nobody shouts my name.
I let out a long breath that I didn't know I was holding. Danvarr broke me once. I refuse to let it swallow me again before I've even cleared the airport.
The automatic doors slide open into the arrivals hall, and the noise rises to meet me.
