Chapter 4 - Secrets in the Galley
Ten minutes later, the immediate crisis had subsided into an uneasy, stunned peace across the first-class cabin.
The baby—whose name, Victor whispered to me, was Leo—remained deeply, peacefully asleep against my chest, his breathing slow and rhythmic, his little fingers still curled into the fabric of my thrift-store sweater. Every time I tried to shift my weight even an inch toward the dividing curtain, Leo would let out a tiny, protesting squeak and burrow deeper, forcing me to stay right where I was.
Victor had insisted—in a tone that brooked zero argument—that I sit in the vacant seat beside him in 2C, while Miller the bodyguard stood guard near the bulkhead, occasionally shooting me looks that oscillated between deep suspicion and grudging respect.
A flight attendant had quietly cleared away the rejected bottles, replacing them with a warm cup of chamomile tea for Victor and a glass of apple juice for me, which was placed gently on the tray table without a word of complaint.
"You're traveling alone?" Victor asked softly, keeping his voice to a low murmur as he leaned back against his leather seat, his eyes never leaving his sleeping son.
"No," I said quickly, perhaps a bit too quickly. I took a cautious sip of the apple juice, keeping my eyes fixed on the condensation sliding down the glass. "I'm with my little sister. She's... she's back in row twenty-two."
Victor’s sharp brow furrowed. "Row twenty-two? In premium economy?"
"Coach, actually," I corrected quietly, feeling a sudden flush of embarrassment. "The ticket upgrade was too expensive."
"And where are your parents?" Victor asked, his analytical mind clearly picking up on the gaps in my story. A ten-year-old girl traveling internationally across the Atlantic with a three-year-old toddler, sitting in coach, while her mother was supposedly "resting" somewhere in the back of the plane—a plane that clearly had no other family members accompanying us.
I swallowed hard, feeling the familiar, cold knot twist tighter in my stomach. The memories of four nights ago flashed behind my eyelids—the shouting in the kitchen, the sound of glass shattering against the pantry door, my mother crying silently while packing a single duffel bag before telling me to grab Maya and run to the neighbor’s porch.
"My mom couldn't make the trip," I lied, keeping my voice flat and controlled, practicing the script I had rehearsed in my head a hundred times since we boarded in New York. "We're meeting my uncle in Rome. He's... he's picking us up at Fiumicino Airport."
Victor didn't look convinced. He was a man who spent his life analyzing corporate balance sheets, spotting fraudulent ledgers, and detecting lies from high-priced executives across negotiating tables. A ten-year-old girl spinning a hastily constructed fairy tale about an uncle in Rome was about as subtle as a neon sign in a dark alley.
However, instead of calling me out, Victor simply took a slow sip of his chamomile tea, his dark eyes studying my profile with an unnerving, quiet depth.
"Your uncle is a very lucky man," Victor said smoothly, his tone nonjudgmental. "Though I imagine picking up two unaccompanied minors at an international airport in a foreign country without proper documentation or advance notice might prove... complicated."
My heart skipped a beat. "We have our passports."
"Passports get you across borders, Lena," Victor replied quietly. "They don't explain why a child your age is parenting a toddler across an ocean while looking over her shoulder every two minutes."
I froze. The glass of apple juice trembled slightly in my hand, a few drops spilling over the rim onto the white linen napkin. I pressed my lips together, fighting the sudden, hot sting of tears behind my eyelids. I hadn't cried when we packed our bags. I hadn't cried when we slept on the hard benches of the bus station in Queens. I refused to cry now, especially in front of a billionaire stranger in first class.
"I can take care of my sister," I whispered fiercely, staring straight ahead at the forward bulkhead. "I've been doing it for a long time."
Victor was silent for a long moment. When I finally dared to glance sideways at him, his expression had completely transformed. The harsh, untouchable CEO was gone, replaced by a man who looked like he understood the heavy, crushing weight of responsibilities he had never asked for.
"I know you can," Victor said softly. He reached out and gently tapped the back of his sleeping son's tiny head to ensure he hadn't disturbed him, then looked back at me. "Strength like that doesn't come from a comfortable life, Lena. It comes from surviving things you shouldn't have had to see."
Before I could formulate a response—before I could figure out whether to deny it or run away—the captain’s voice crackled over the intercom, cutting sharply through the quiet cabin.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning our final descent into Rome Fiumicino. Please return to your seats, secure your tray tables, and prepare for landing.”
Panic, sharp and immediate, surged through my veins.
Landing. Which meant I had to go back to row twenty-two. Which meant I had to wake Maya up, fold up our blankets, and face the terrifying reality of stepping off this plane into a massive, unfamiliar foreign airport with €274, a three-year-old toddler, and no actual uncle waiting at the arrivals gate.
Aunt Clara in Trastevere was real, yes—we had her address written on a crumpled napkin in my pocket—but getting across Rome to find a ceramic shop with a toddler in the middle of the night without speaking a word of Italian suddenly felt like climbing Mount Everest in a pair of sneakers.
Victor noticed the sudden panic on my face instantly.
"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice dropping into a sharp, protective register.
"Nothing," I stammered, awkwardly shifting Leo in my arms, trying to figure out how to hand him back without waking him up. "I... I have to go back to my seat. My sister is waiting."
"Wait," Victor said, holding up a hand. He unbuckled his seatbelt with a smooth, practiced click. "You aren't going anywhere yet. Miller."
The massive security guard stepped forward instantly. "Yes, Mr. Sterling?"
"Go back to row twenty-two," Victor instructed, his tone absolute and commanding. "Retrieve the child's belongings, her luggage, and ensure her little sister is brought up here safely. We are clearing customs through the private VIP hangar, not the main terminal."
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My jaw dropped. "Private VIP hangar? But we don't—we can't do that, we're flying commercial—"
"You flew commercial, Lena," Victor corrected calmly, standing up to his full, towering height and carefully taking his sleeping son back into his arms with a practiced, confident ease that proved my lesson had actually stuck. "Right now, you are traveling with me."
