Phantom Rider - The Reckoning | Book 2

#33 | Nastja vs. Mila

Mila's POV

I walked through the airport exit. The glass doors slid open, revealing a world buzzing-laughter and chatter of people made the building pulse with life. Humanity surrounded me, untouched by horrors. Life here continued, blissfully ignorant of the cruelty lurking in places hidden from sunlight. The day was warm and sunny-a slap in my face. I was not ready to take in that light.

I dragged my suitcase behind me, the wheels clunking over grooves in the floor. It felt impossibly heavy, as though it carried not just clothes but the weight of everything I'd endured-my own trauma neatly folded between layers of fabric I'd never worn. Vacation outfits hung in my bag like costumes from a play I had no business starring in.

I hoped silently that he wouldn't be here. That I could slip away unnoticed, call a cab, and disappear to some hotel room where I could unpack everything: my memories, my broken pieces-in solitude and alone.

But there he was. Dylan.

His almost-white hair shone under the sun, and his blue-grey eyes searched the crowd until they landed on me. Immaculate as always-his tailored jacket over a crisp white shirt fit him perfectly, just like the world seemed to.

I stopped walking, suddenly hyper-aware of myself. My dark clothes, my pale, gaunt face, the cloud of everything I carried hanging visibly over me. I was a storm, heavy with rain, poised to ruin everything in its path.

And yet, I smiled.

I'm good at this-pretending, hiding the darkness inside. My smile stretched wide, almost too wide, and I let it fool him into thinking I am as normal as he is.

"Nastja!" he called, his voice rising above the airport din, filled with warmth only he had. Then he rushed toward me, the ease and speed of his movements making me freeze.

"Let me take your suitcase," he said, already reaching for it.

In no time, he stood in front of me with a bouquet of white lilies.

My breath caught.

Lilies. Forget-me... no! Lilies. I like them too.

I instinctively reached out, taking the flowers. I needed something to hold on to so I didn't shatter. They were soft, delicate, and perfect.

"Welcome back, honey," Dylan said, smiling gently at me.

"Thank you." Only when I said the words did I realize how dumb they sounded.

He took the suitcase from my side so naturally it made me feel even more out of place. Dylan smiled again and pressed a kiss on my cheek, unbothered by the heaviness I carried. "Come on. Let's get you home."

I nodded, too drained to argue, too overwhelmed to tell him I wasn't ready to go anywhere that felt like home.

The car ride was quiet. Dylan didn't press me for details, didn't ask much about my trip. Instead, he hummed softly to the radio.

I stared out the window, watching the city blur past. The flowers sat in my lap, their scent finding a way through my nostrils to my brain, to my mind-calming me, inhale by inhale. What I did want, though, was a glass (or bottle) of wine and a pack of cigarettes. Well... not when Mister Perfect is around.

"Everything's fine now," Dylan said suddenly, as if he knew more. His voice broke through my haze. "You're back. That's all that matters."

He didn't know, couldn't know, the depths of what I'd been doing. The words he said only deepened the guilt in me.

When we arrived at his apartment-our apartment-I lingered at the door that loomed like a passage to another dimension. For a moment, I considered running away. Dylan, not noticing anything, unlocked the door and pushed it open. The space inside was just like him: clean lines, soft tones, the faint scent of coffee and vanilla. It made me feel like an intruder.