New Life

My fingernails dug into the soft gray leather armrests of the first-class cabin, the skin stretching taut over my knuckles until they went stark white. The massive Boeing 747 roared down the Houston runway, shaking my bones and rattling my teeth. Every heavy jolt of the tires against the tarmac sent a fresh wave of nausea crashing through my stomach. I hated flying. No amount of mental preparation could subdue the intense swirling wreaking havoc on my insides. The metal cylinder felt like a beast on steroids, pitching upward with terrifying force, tearing through the cloud cover and leaving the sweltering Texas heat behind.

Houston shrank into nothing but a distant memory, taking nineteen years of my life with it. My chest heaved. Shallow, ragged pants slipped past my lips as I stared at the back of the seat in front of me. I closed my eyes tight, praying for the mechanical ding of the seatbelt sign to signal we were safe in the sky.

When the chime finally echoed through the cabin, I slumped back into the plush leather captain’s chair, my trembling body seeking the comfort of the seat. Upgrading from coach to first class had been a reckless last-minute decision, draining my dwindling savings, but the extra space felt necessary right now.

A warm, slender hand tapped gently over my frozen knuckles. I jumped, my eyes snapping open.

"Are you okay, sweetheart?"

The woman sitting in the seat beside me possessed a calm, regal elegance. Soft jade-green eyes studied my panicked expression, framed by creamy ivory-tanned skin that spoke of decades of graceful aging. She wore a royal blue silk blouse that draped effortlessly over her slender frame, resembling a dancer’s physique. A soft floral fragrance drifted from her, instantly recognizable. It was White Diamonds by Elizabeth Taylor, the exact same perfume the headmistress of my orphanage wore like a second layer of clothing.

"I'll survive," I managed to whisper, loosening my death grip on the armrest. I forced a nervous laugh. "Just not a big fan of planes."

"I could tell by the way you were trying to strangle that poor chair." Her smile held genuine warmth. "Would you like a drink to calm your nerves?"

Before I could answer, a flight attendant sauntered down the aisle toward our row. Her name tag read Vanessa, pinned crookedly to a blue double-breasted jacket left unbuttoned just enough to showcase a sultry peek-a-boo of her red lace bra. She paused to lean over the aisle, brushing her hand delicately down the forearm of a businessman with golden locks tied into a man-bun, flashing a bright, condescending smile.

"I'm only nineteen," I whispered back to the older woman, suddenly feeling underdressed in my torn skinny jeans, black gladiator sandals, and vintage Black Sabbath t-shirt.

"Shush. Let it be our little secret." She raised a graceful hand, catching the flight attendant's attention.

Vanessa strutted over, her red-tinted lips curled into a smirk that was the wrong color for her complexion. Her curly brown hair with heavy blonde highlights bounced with each step.

"Could I get a whiskey on the rocks, and a Coke for this young lady?" the older woman ordered, her tone polite but laced with quiet authority.

Vanessa gave a stiff nod, shooting me a dismissive glance before turning her back to head for the galley.

"She seems pleasant," I muttered under my breath, grabbing my earbuds and switching my phone over to my music playlist.

A soft chuckle escaped my seatmate. "More condescending than pleasant."

I smiled. "I’m Elara, by the way." I extended my hand.

She cupped my hand between both of hers in a polite southern greeting. Her grip was firm, comforting. "Elena Aris."

I flipped open my laptop. The screen fired to life, displaying a majestic background of the supernatural zodiac. I knew it made me look like a dork. The screen showed glowing constellations shaping into a wolf howling at the moon, flanked by celestial dragons. Something about the supernatural always drew my attention. I spent hours wondering what it would be like to shift into a powerful creature, to shed my weak human skin and possess undeniable strength. *Keep dreaming, Elara,* I scolded myself, minimizing the wallpaper to pull up my emails.

My acceptance letter to the International School of Fine Arts in London filled the screen. The words "Full Scholarship" stared back at me in bold print.

Vanessa returned, slapping a plastic cup of Coke on my tray table and handing Elena a lowball glass filled with amber liquid and ice. The moment Vanessa turned her back to resume flirting with the man-bun guy, Elena smoothly slid the whiskey over to me and took the Coke for herself.

"Drink up," Elena murmured, a mischievous glint in her jade eyes.

I brought the rim to my lips. The whiskey burned a hot, soothing trail down my throat, settling heavy in my empty stomach. The warmth instantly loosened the tight knots in my chest. I let out a long breath, feeling the panic melt away into the background.

Elena leaned closer, her gaze dropping to my glowing screen. "Fine Arts. What area?"

"Music and dance," I replied, scrolling through the housing details, checking my start date, making sure I had everything in order before touching down on foreign soil. "Mainly piano, but I pick up instruments easily. I always had a natural gift to learn. Music has always been my safe zone."

Elena tilted her head. Her soft facial features reflected wisdom and a carefree spirit. She studied my face with a piercing intuition. "It’s always good to have a safe zone. But why would a beautiful young woman like you need one?"

The question hit me square in the chest. I stared at the blinking cursor on my screen, debating if I should share my story with a stranger or keep it simple. Fuck it. I was leaving Texas for good. New life, new me.

"I was abandoned outside a firehouse in Vance, Texas, when I was an infant," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. I turned my head to look out the small oval window. The sun reflected off the endless sea of puffy white clouds, illuminating them with golden rays. "I grew up in the local orphanage. I never had a real family. Music was the only thing that belonged to me."

Elena reached over, her warm hand rubbing gently along my forearm. The simple gesture of comfort stirred something deep within my chest. A hot prickle formed at the corners of my eyes. Before I could stop them, tears slipped down my cheeks, dropping onto my lap.

"Oh, sweet girl," Elena gasped softly. She reached into her purple leather Chanel purse and pulled out a soft ivory handkerchief. The name 'ELENA' was delicately embroidered in dusty blue script along the corner. She leaned over, dabbing tenderly at my puffy cheeks.

"I'm sorry," I sniffled, waving my hand to brush off the display of emotion. I closed my laptop. "It's not just the orphanage. My boyfriend—well, my ex-boyfriend—was supposed to be on this flight with me. We were supposed to go to London together. But here I am. Alone."

Elena took a slow sip of her Coke, the ice clinking hollowly against the glass. "It sounds like he hurt you badly."

I went rigid. The whiskey sloshing in my stomach suddenly felt toxic. I shot her a side-glance, wondering how she could read me so easily. Was she psychic?

She rolled her eyes in annoyance as Vanessa let out a loud, obnoxious laugh from the front row that sounded like a dying cow. "Relax," Elena said, turning back to me. "People don’t realize they wear their emotions so openly. Plus, the tone you use when you speak of him is less than pleasant."

"Yeah," I replied shortly. I leaned my head back against the cool leather seat.

Memories of Brock flooded my mind, bringing a strange swirling heat creeping along my skin. Miss Clarice, the headmistress at the Beacon Crest Orphanage, had let me move into a small studio apartment above a garage when I turned sixteen because I was academically stable. She knew a small-town orphanage was no place for a talented soul. For two years, that tiny studio was my sanctuary. Then came Brock.

He was a drummer. Well-built, with sandy hair and golden amber eyes that shone with a classic bad-boy charm. Every girl in school wanted him. Miss Clarice warned me about him constantly. She knew his past. I was stupid not to listen to her.

He didn't even acknowledge my existence until the summer before our senior year. I was sitting alone in the school auditorium, playing Clair De Lune on a dusty baby grand piano hidden in the stage left access. The tight twang of the chords sang tenderly to my heart. I thought I was alone until a shadow moved in the third-level balcony. Brock walked down, clapping his hands, flashing a smug smirk that made his dimples pop.

That moment kick-started the rollercoaster of our relationship. He always made me feel special. I saved up every dime from my diner waitressing job to book this international trip as a graduation surprise. I wanted to show him the world.

Instead, I got the ultimate surprise.

The memory crashed over me in a vivid, nauseating wave. I had just finished the lunch rush at the diner. The thick envelope resting in my back pocket held two first-class tickets to London. The Texas sun beat down on my shoulders as I climbed the exterior wooden stairs to my garage studio. The steps creaked under my boots. I reached for the doorknob, ready to burst in and shout his name, ready to see his amber eyes light up.

The door was already unlocked.

I stepped into the narrow entryway, kicking off my shoes. "Brock?" I called out softly.

No answer. Just a heavy, musky scent hanging in the humid air—sweat and sex. Then I heard it. The unmistakable, wet sounds of flesh slapping against flesh, echoing from my bedroom. High-pitched, breathless moans followed, dripping with dirty ecstasy.

My heart dropped into my stomach. I walked forward, stopping in the doorway.

Brock was on my bed. His bare, muscular ass flexed and strained as he drove his hips forward, fucking Sienna, his ex-girlfriend. She lay flat on her back, her bare legs hooked wide open and wrapped tightly around his waist. I stood frozen in horror, watching the explicit sight of Brock's hard, thick cock sliding all the way out of Sienna's wet, glistening pussy. The pink lips of her cunt stretched and yielded before he slammed deep back inside her dripping hole.

"Oh fuck, Brock, yes," Sienna moaned loudly, her fingers digging into his sweaty shoulders as his heavy balls slapped against her ass cheeks with every brutal, punishing thrust.

He grunted, gripping her hips tight, pumping his cock into her wet cunt like a feral animal. He was lost in the raw rhythm of fucking her right on my sheets. I stared at his reproductive organs sliding in and out of her, the visual burning into my retinas, destroying every memory we ever built.

Hot, acidic bile rushed up my throat instantly. I couldn't breathe. The sheer disgust and betrayal paralyzed me for one agonizing second. Then, blind rage took over.

I spun on my heel, marching out of the apartment. I grabbed the door handle and slammed the heavy wooden door shut behind me with a deafening crack.

"Elara!" Sienna’s panicked voice pierced the thin walls.

I bolted down the stairs, my boots hammering against the wood. I hit the sidewalk, yanking my phone out of my pocket and pulling up the Lyft app.

"Elara, wait! Open the fucking door!"

I whipped around. Brock stumbled out of the garage, breathless and flushed. He was half-dressed, frantically pulling up a pair of ripped, stonewashed jeans. The exact same pair of jeans I had bought him for his birthday using my hard-earned diner tips. His sweaty torso heaved under the harsh Texas sun, glistening from the cardio he just got plowing that slut in my bed.

He reached out, his hot, clammy palm grabbing my bicep to spin me around. "Baby, let me explain—"

I didn't let him finish. I swung my arm, putting my weight into the motion. My palm connected with his jaw. The loud, stinging slap echoed down the street.

A metallic blue Jeep Wrangler pulled up to the curb. My Lyft.

I ripped my arm out of his grasp, snatched my duffel bag from the ground, tossed my hiking bag into the back, and climbed into the seat.

Brock lunged forward, slamming his sweaty palm against the tinted window. "Elara, open the fucking door!" he commanded, his face twisted in panic. The Texas heat evaporated the sweat from his palm on touch, leaving a ghostly outline of steam on the glass.

"Houston Airport, please," I told the driver softly.

As the Jeep pulled away, the barrier broke. Tears streamed down my face. I looked back one last time. Brock ran along the sidewalk, holding up his jeans as they drifted down those muscular hips that used to drive me wild. Thank the Gods I managed to keep my virginity, but I still felt tainted by him.

"There’s bottled water in the back," the driver said quietly, navigating the highway traffic, taking me to the airport to start the next chapter of my life.

I was an idiot. Miss Clarice had warned me. Sienna was his girlfriend before we got together. I knew full well she had cheated on him with a friend. The fact that he went back to her, and fucked her in my sanctuary, made the betrayal burn even hotter.

"Elara?"

Elena's soft voice pulled me back from my treacherous thoughts. The hum of the jet engines filled my ears again. I blinked, realizing my hands were curled into tight fists on my lap. The strange tingling beneath my skin seemed to have intensified while I thought back on Brock's betrayal.

Elena reached over, her warm hand smoothing out the tension in my knuckles. "You are better off without him. Besides, you are young, beautiful, and who knows what London holds for you in the future. Enjoy it."

She smiled brightly, offering a playful shrug of her shoulder.

I let out a shaky breath, forcing a small laugh. "Beautiful is pushing it."

Before I could dwell on the pain any longer, a loud, cheerful hum drifted down the aisle. A tall, flamboyant male flight attendant with styled blonde hair pushed a metal service cart toward our row. He wore a crisp, fitted uniform and a radiant smile that lit up his entire face, a stark contrast to Vanessa's sour attitude. He moved with a theatrical bounce, exuding a joyful personality that instantly lifted the heavy fog in my mind.

I sat up a little straighter, brushing the last tear from my cheek. I could eat that joyful energy all up. I told myself to snap out of it. I deserved a better guy, a better life. I needed to get myself together and face whatever was coming.

The blonde flight attendant parked his cart next to our seats, clasping his hands together with a dramatic flourish.