Chapter 7 Shadows of the Past

The low rumble of the engine echoed through the glossy floors of the private terminal. Hermosa stood stiffly near the glass wall, arms crossed, suitcase beside her like a silent companion. Outside, the sleek black jet gleamed under the morning sun, cold and distant, just like the man who had summoned her.

Don Alaric arrived without announcement. No entourage this time, just him in a dark tailored coat, sunglasses shielding his eyes. He didn't look at her. He walked straight past her and toward the waiting staircase of the plane, a silent storm wrapped in expensive fabric.

Hermosa followed, cheeks flushed with unease and resentment.

Inside, the jet was as lavish as expected, cream leather seats, polished mahogany, chilled champagne waiting in a silver bucket. But the air felt too still, too heavy, like walking into a trap wrapped in silk.

Don Alaric took the window seat in the rear cabin and pulled out a tablet. "We'll review Zurich's merger conditions mid-flight," he said without looking up. "You'll present your findings."

Hermosa slid into the opposite seat, leaving a gulf of tension between them. "Of course," she murmured.

The engines roared to life. As the plane began its ascent, Hermosa's eyes drifted to the sky beyond, but it wasn't the clouds she saw. It was Andre, laughing beside her in another private jet, his fingers laced with hers, his whisper warm against her cheek.

"When we go to Greece, let's stay off the radar. Just us. No business. No cameras."

She blinked hard, banishing the memory. But it clung.

Don Alaric shifted, folding his napkin with delicate precision. Hermosa's gaze caught the way his fingers moved, an old habit. Andre used to do that. Fold once, then twice, then crease it diagonally with an edge.

Her breath hitched.

She looked up. Don Alaric's eyes, cold, unreadable, were on her.

"What is it?" he asked flatly.

"N-nothing," she stammered. "Just-turbulence."

He went back to his tablet.

Hermosa reached for her documents, needing distraction. But the air in the cabin seemed to thicken with every mile. Every movement he made sent ripples of déjà vu down her spine. The way he adjusted his cufflink. The sharp angle of his jaw when he turned. The way he said her name.

"Hermosa," he had said earlier, clipped, emotionless. But Andre had always said it like a song.

Still... still...

"Are you sure we haven't met before?" she asked suddenly.

Don Alaric's gaze lifted. "Is that a pick-up line?" His voice was laced with sarcasm.

She flushed. "No. I meant... you feel familiar."

He leaned back; expression unreadable. "A lot of women think that. Power has a way of feeling familiar."

A flicker of something crossed his face, amusement? Sadness? But it was gone before she could name it.

Hermosa looked away, her heart thudding. She wanted to scream. To demand answers. To rip off the icy mask he wore.

But the silence swallowed her courage.

They reviewed merger points for an hour. Don Alaric interrupted often, his tone biting, demanding, never satisfied. She bit her tongue through it all, anger rising in her gut.

Eventually, he closed his tablet and reclined, pulling on a sleep mask.

Hermosa turned toward the window and leaned her head against the cool glass, the roar of the engines like white noise in her mind. Exhaustion and memories wrestled for space in her brain.

---

Hours passed. The sun had dipped low by the time Don Alaric stirred and stepped into the forward cabin.

Hermosa remained curled in her seat, finally asleep. Her breathing slow, her lips slightly parted in restless slumber. A few strands of hair clung to her cheek.

He stood silently in the aisle.

He hadn't meant to look at her. But now that he did, he couldn't stop. She looked the same, perhaps softer now, shadows under her eyes, weight of regret etched into the corners of her mouth. But still so painfully familiar.

Andre's heart, the one buried beneath the frostbite of betrayal, ached.

She had ruined him. She had sided with those who tore his world apart.

And yet.

He reached out as if to touch her, then stopped. His hand hovered inches above her shoulder. Instead, he turned it into a fist and pulled it back.

She destroyed me, he thought bitterly, eyes still fixed on her. Now she will help me bury them all.

But even the taste of vengeance didn't soothe the burn in his chest.

He was about to retreat when she stirred.

Her eyes fluttered open, drowsy and confused. Then they locked onto him-standing above her, silhouetted by the low amber lights.

Her breath caught. "Don Alaric?"

He didn't move.

For a long, frozen second, neither of them spoke.

Hermosa sat up slowly, her heart pounding, her voice hoarse. "Were you... watching me?"

Don Alaric's face remained unreadable. "You talk in your sleep."

She blinked. "I do?"

He didn't answer. Just stared at her with something dark swirling in his gaze, something too raw to be hatred, too sharp to be longing.

Hermosa couldn't look away.

"I had a dream," she said quietly. "An old one. From before..."

He tilted his head. "Before what?"

She hesitated. "Before everything changed."

A beat passed.

"Get some rest," he said, turning to leave.

"Wait," she said, standing. "Who are you really?"

He paused at the cabin threshold, not looking back.

"Someone who doesn't dream anymore," he replied, and disappeared into the shadows of the jet.

Hermosa stood alone, trembling, not from cold, but from the ghosts clawing at the edges of her heart.