When Vista Airlines Flight 1082 finally made its emergency landing, every single person on board let out a long breath of relief. The entire cabin seemed to relax at once.
But only Eleanor Hopkins understood the truth. Her marriage to Winslow Hamilton could never go back to what it had been.
The man who once loved her with everything he had made his choice the moment the hijacker held a knife to them. He pushed her straight into danger without even hesitating. Then he pulled Nicole Hopkins tightly into his arms and said in a voice that left no room for argument, "You're the older sister. When it comes down to life and death, you should give way to her."
Eleanor's lips trembled. She did not say a single word. A few days later, she quietly walked away from the job she loved at Vista Airlines.
The instant the plane stopped moving, Nicole buried herself deeper in Winslow's arms and refused to let go. She raised her scratched little finger and cried out in pain, her voice small and pitiful.
Winslow's heart felt like it was breaking into pieces as he watched her cry like a delicate flower beaten down by rain.
He turned on Eleanor before she could even catch her breath. His words hit her like a slap. "Why didn't you protect your sister? Look at her now. She's hurt because of you. Are you satisfied? No wonder the Hopkins family always said you were an ungrateful stray that could never be tamed."
His voice was vicious, his eyes burning with accusation. It felt as if the woman standing in front of him were not his wife at all, but the person he hated most in the world.
Eleanor followed his gaze to the tiny smear of blood on Nicole's fingertip. A strange, bitter sense of absurdity rose in her chest.
He could not see the blood covering her own hair and face. He could not see how her uniform was soaked red. In his eyes, there was only Nicole.
That look of pure heartache and gentle care was almost beautiful.
If Winslow had not been her husband, she might have clapped her hands and congratulated them on such deep love.
Right then, her adoptive parents' call came through like clockwork. There was no greeting, no concern—only the same sharp cruelty she knew too well.
As soon as she answered, the familiar voice cut in. "You worthless little tramp. If anything happens to your sister, we will never let you go. Everything you ate and every place you slept, we provided for you. How dare you abandon Nicole when she was in danger? Have you no shame at all?"
The shrill coldness in that voice stabbed into her ears like invisible needles.
Yet Eleanor had grown used to these unfair attacks long ago.
From the time she was little, her only purpose had been to protect Nicole. Nicole was the precious flower kept safe in a greenhouse. Eleanor was just the plain leaf that stood between her and the wind.
Every time Nicole shed even one tear, Eleanor was the one who got punished. That was her single role in the Hopkins family.
Later, Winslow appeared. He pulled her out of that suffocating home, took her under his wing, and stood by her like a shield.
But three years into their marriage, that shelter was no longer hers alone. Now Nicole stood beneath it too, and there was no place left for her.
Eleanor stared at the dark screen of her phone, forcing down the bitterness welling up inside her before letting out a quiet breath.
Compared to the invisible blame and insults, she was more relieved that today's incident had not resulted in any loss of life.
Otherwise, two hundred people would have been gone just like that.
Someone nearby must have nudged him, because Winslow suddenly realized how harsh he had sounded. He paused awkwardly and tried to soften his tone.
"Eleanor, what I said just now was too much. Please don't mind it. I was only worried..."
"You were worried Nicole might be hurt," Eleanor answered in a soft, understanding voice. "You were worried you wouldn't know what to say to Mom and Dad. I know. I understand everything."
She looked at him with calm eyes and even gave a small smile.
But inside, something twisted painfully, jealousy flooding her chest until it hurt to breathe. The corners of her eyes reddened without her noticing.
Winslow opened his mouth. He tried to speak, but no words came. After several long seconds, he simply closed it again.
He never noticed the self-mocking pain hidden behind her faint smile.
Because in the next moment, he lifted the still-crying Nicole into his arms and rushed her toward the medical station, leaving Eleanor standing alone behind him—her face pale, her uniform stained with blood.
She watched his urgent back disappear into the crowd. She could not tell whether the feeling spreading through her chest was colder than the pain.
Aksara