Page 121 of Beautiful Secrets

“The sign is on,” Erik says. “If you feel sick, use one of these.” He takes a paper bag out of the holder on the back of the seat in front of him and holds it out.

I stare at the bag, then at him, mortified.

But there is no time to try and get out of my seat. My stomach clenches, and I barely grab the bag and open it before I’m violently sick into it.

Distantly, I hear Erik call out to an air hostess. Some murmurs and complaints around me.

“Feel better?” Erik asks.

Someone—I don’t think him, because the hand feels small and soft—takes away the bag of sick. But I think it is Erik who presses a warm, damp towel into my hand.

“They can serve some tea when we are in the air,” he says.

“Stop,” I whisper.

“Excuse me?”

“Stop!” I shove away the towel, shove away Erik when he leans a little closer. “Stop the plane!”

I open my seatbelt, and stand, clinging to the seat in front of me when the ground tips under my feet.

“Dear, you must sit—” Erik begins.

“Please!” I yell, trying so hard to ignore the hundreds of eyes turning to look at me. “Please let me out!”

An air hostess hurries over, a prim look on her face.

I already know what she’s going to say before she gets close, but I can’t sit down again.

I know why I became sick. It has nothing to do with the height, or the plane, or the baby.

It is the thought of leaving behind the only good thing in my life.

A week ago, that would have been Vanya. And perhaps it still is, in a way.

But that is not who flashed through my mind when the plane began to move.

Cole.

I feel physically sick at the thought of leaving him behind. At the thought of what might become of him now that I have escaped. Now that I am free.

It could just be guilt—that would make more sense than anything else.

But it is not.

I should have felt relieved, stepping onto this plane. Knowing I was going back home to start a new life. But I am not. I am dreading the finality of lifting off. Of touch down. Of being in a different country for the foreseeable future with no way of contacting Cole.

I cannot fly to Russia.

Not now.

Not alone.

But maybe I can find Cole, and convince him to come with me. Or I could stay in Scotland.

With him.

“Ma’am, the seatbelt light is on,” the brass-haired hostess says. “You have to remain in your—”