Chapter 6 - The Stewardess Who Looked Like My Father
The moment Flynn’s footsteps faded down the corridor, another sharp knock rattled the door.
"Mrs. Mercer?"
It was her.
The wife. The accomplice. S.
"Come in," I called out, sinking deeper into the pillows.
The door opened, and Natalie entered carrying a small silver tray with a porcelain teacup.
She wore the standard white and navy uniform of the Solstice crew, but now, knowing the truth, the disguise looked entirely absurd.
She walked toward the bed, her posture far too rigid for a servant.
"Mr. Mercer thought some herbal tea might soothe your stomach," she said, her voice flat and professional.
"How thoughtful of my husband," I replied.
I pushed myself up against the headboard, making sure my hands trembled slightly as I adjusted the blankets.
Natalie set the tray on the nightstand.
She didn't immediately leave.
She stood there, her hands clasped in front of her, watching me with a gaze that felt heavy with unspoken hatred.
"You've been working for my family long?" I asked, letting my words slur just a fraction.
"Long enough," she said sharply.
I looked at her face, really looked at it, stripped of the polite facade I had assumed was just shyness.
Her cheekbones were high and pronounced.
Her jawline was sharp, almost aristocratic.
There was a distinct, subtle tilt to her eyes that sent a strange, uncomfortable sense of deja vu crawling up my spine.
I had seen that face before.
Not on her, but in oil paintings hanging in the Sterling estate.
"You look familiar, Natalie," I said softly.
Her eyes flashed, a sudden spark of genuine fury breaking through her cold exterior.
"I doubt that, Mrs. Mercer. We travel in very different circles."
"Do we?" I asked.
"I serve drinks. You drink them," she sneered, dropping the polite stewardess act entirely. "Drink your tea before it gets cold."
"I'm not thirsty."
"Mr. Mercer insisted."
"And you always do exactly what my husband tells you?"
The silence that followed was so thick it felt like it was sucking the oxygen out of the room.
Natalie stepped closer to the bed, her hands gripping the edge of the mattress.
"You have no idea how the real world works, do you, Claire?" she whispered.
"Enlighten me," I challenged, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
"People like you think you're safe just because you have a name and a bank account."
She leaned in, her perfume—something cheap and floral—masking the smell of the ocean outside.
"But you're just paper. You tear easily."
"Are you threatening me, Natalie?"
She laughed, a harsh, breathless sound.
"I'm telling you to drink your tea."
She turned on her heel and marched out of the room, slamming the heavy wooden door behind her.
I sat alone in the quiet suite, my breathing ragged.
I grabbed the porcelain teacup.
The liquid inside was a dark, murky amber, smelling faintly of chamomile and something sharply chemical.
I swung my legs out of bed, walked over to the massive potted orchid in the corner of the room, and poured the entire cup into the soil.
I stared at the wet dirt, putting the pieces together.
Sloane. Her name was Sloane.
May you like
She didn't just want my money; she despised my existence.
And she had my father's jawline.
