Alondra barely slept. She kept hearing the knock in her head, over and over, as if the sound had carved itself into her bones. Her flat was quiet when dawn slipped in through the blinds, but she didn't trust it. She'd sat awake on the couch until the sky turned a dull, silver-blue, her blanket wrapped around her shoulders, her eyes raw.
When the alarm rang, she felt hollow, like her body had gone through twenty flights in one night. She showered, dressed in her neat uniform, tied her scarf with shaking fingers, and stared at her reflection. The lipstick was smooth, the bun tight, and the scarf symmetrical. But her eyes were wide and rimmed with shadows, and no amount of concealer could cover the truth that she hadn't rested.
Her phone sat on the counter. The message was still there. Nice coffee.
She hadn't replied. She hadn't deleted it either. Her thumb hovered over it twice, but both times she put the phone down, as though erasing it would somehow make the danger worse.
By the time she reached the airport, the familiar chaos had started to calm her nerves. Luggage wheels clattering against tiles, voices on intercoms, and the faint smell of coffee and jet fuel. Airports had always been her anchor: structured, noisy, and impossible to feel alone in.
But the second she walked into the crew lounge, Zara spotted her.
"Madre mía," Zara said, dragging her into a corner, "you look like a ghost someone shook out of a suitcase. What happened?"
Alondra smoothed her scarf, forcing a smile. "Didn't sleep well."
Zara tilted her head, red lipstick sharp against her pale skin. "Didn't sleep well because?"
"Because I couldn't," Alondra said flatly, and moved to grab her checklist.
"Don't brush me off," Zara snapped, catching her wrist. "I know that face. You've got secrets leaking out of your eyes. Spill it."
Alondra sighed, eyes flicking around at the other crew members. "Not here."
"So, there is something?" Zara's tone softened. "Alondra… tell me. I'm not your enemy."
Alondra's throat tightened. For a heartbeat, she considered telling her everything—about the message, the knock, and the way Ezean Carter kept showing up like a shadow she couldn't escape. But fear clenched her ribs. If she said it out loud, it would become real.
She forced her face into neutral. "It's nothing, Zara. Just… my head is a mess."
Zara studied her for a long second, then let go. "Fine. But you're really scaring me, amiga."
The PA system called for a briefing, saving Alondra from answering. She grabbed her things and followed the others down the long glass corridor toward the plane.
The scent of jet fuel hit her nose, sharp and metallic, the hum of engines vibrating in her chest. This was supposed to be safe—the ritual of safety checks, the mechanical rhythm she knew better than her own heartbeat. She threw herself into it, counting oxygen masks, adjusting blankets, and repeating instructions in her head.
But routine couldn't protect her from passengers.
The doors opened. The first line of business travellers filed in, eyes on their phones, nodding politely. A family with two children came next, the kids sticky with lollipops. Then, without warning, the cabin tilted around her.
Ezean Carter.
He stepped in as though he owned the jet bridge, in a sharp suit in a shade of grey that caught the light, eyes scanning the cabin with cool detachment. His presence shifted the air, made it heavier.
Alondra's fingers curled around the edge of the seat. She forced her lips into their practiced smile. "Welcome aboard, Mr. Carter."
His gaze flicked to her, brief but sharp, like a knife slicing paper. He gave the smallest nod, not quite polite, not quite dismissive, and continued down the aisle toward the private suite at the front.
The moment he disappeared, Zara leaned so close her perfume hit like sugar and spice. "That's him, isn't it?"
Alondra stiffened. "Zara—"
"Don't bother denying it. I can see it in your face. Madre de Dios, that man looks like he chews steel for breakfast. That's who's been keeping you awake?"
Alondra turned sharply, pretending to adjust a passenger's luggage. "Drop it."
But Zara smirked knowingly.
Through takeoff, Alondra buried herself in tasks—fastening belts, smiling at strangers, pouring orange juice, and folding blankets. Anything to keep her hands busy. She avoided the private suite like it was a fire. Every time she thought about walking down that aisle, her chest tightened.
But fate didn't care about her rules.
Midway through the flight, turbulence hit. A soft rattle at first, then harder, shaking the glasses on the carts, making passengers glance nervously at each other. The seatbelt sign blinked on.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please return to your seats," Alondra said smoothly, even as her own feet staggered with the jolt. She braced against the cart, hands steady but heart racing.
And then a hand caught her arm. Firm, steady, commanding.
"Sit," Ezean said. His voice was low, cutting through the noise, his eyes fixed on her.
She froze. "I'm fine, sir—"
"You're not." His jaw was tense, his grip steady. "Sit down before you hurt yourself."
For a second, she wanted to argue. To say she was trained for this, that she didn't need him. But something in his tone—not harsh, not gentle, just absolute—made her legs move on their own. She dropped into the jump seat across from him as the plane jolted again.
For a moment, they sat in silence, only the hum of engines and the clink of overhead bins filling the air. His eyes never left hers.
"You shouldn't be here," he said at last.
Her breath caught. "Excuse me?"
His voice lowered, dangerous and steady. "On this flight. Near me. At all."
Her chest rose and fell too fast. "I don't choose where people sit."
"Then maybe you should start."
The words sliced through her, leaving questions she couldn't voice. What did he mean? Why was he here again? Why did it feel like he was both warning her and pulling her closer?
Before she could ask, the turbulence eased. The sign flicked off. Passengers unclenched their hands from the armrests. Ezean stood smoothly, adjusting his cufflinks like nothing had happened, and returned to his suite without another word.
Alondra stayed frozen, fingers gripping the edge of the seat, her heart pounding in her throat.
When they landed, she pasted on her smile as passengers filed out, dragging suitcases, nodding polite goodbyes. She let her voice go flat from repetition. But when Ezean passed, he didn't glance at her. He walked straight past, into the crowd, vanishing like smoke.
Relief surged in her chest, sharp and brief—until her phone buzzed.
A new message.
Same unknown number.
Stay away from me.
Her hand shook as she read it. She spun, eyes darting across the terminal. Hundreds of faces. Too many shadows. He was gone.
Zara tugged her arm. "Come on, let's get a drink before we crash. You need it."
Alondra nodded numbly, but her eyes kept searching the crowd, desperate and terrified at once.
That night, in the quiet of her hotel room, the air conditioner humming against the stillness, she sat on the edge of the bed staring at her phone. She thought of calling her mother, of telling Zara the truth, of booking a flight back to Madrid, and of locking the door forever.
But just as she set the phone down, the knock came.
Soft. Slow. Deliberate.
Her chest locked. She stood, bare feet on the carpet, staring at the door. The knock came again, sharper this time.
"Who is it?" She whispered, but her voice was swallowed by the silence.
The third knock landed heavier, followed by the faint scrape of something against the door.
Her hand hovered over the handle. She knew, with a certainty that burned in her gut, who was on the other side.