Page 171 of Cara
Morning light filters through countless windows, bathing the airplanes on the tarmac in warm golden and pink tones. Despite his injuries, Xavier clasps my hand firmly, guiding me through the crowded airport. His head is bowed, a cap shielding his famous face from the cameras.
The televisions, all arranged in rows, display the same news coverage—a warehouse on fire.
Business Mogul and Wife Assumed Dead
The sight of our names, and I'm nearly sick.
The countless corpses left in our wake follow.
My father.
Dominic Strata.
The nameless bastards who followed them.
The reporters have linked us all together, unable to deny the world the right to see who we really are.
Criminals.
Curious passengers huddle by the screens, captivated by the collapsing buildings and the profound mystery of the underground. The last time I was here with him, we had just returned from our honeymoon. So many memories flood back—the fact that we’re once again running for our lives, facing what we couldn’t overcome four years ago.
In his other hand, Xavier is gripping our boarding passes tight enough to crumple them. With nothing but the clothes on our backs, we navigate through bewildered foreigners, exasperated airport staff, and distracted security guards, pushing our weary bodies onward.
We’re doing this. We’ve made it this far.
At this hour, the queue at TSA is relatively small, yet the staff remains just as assertive, pressuring everyone through security with piercing looks and raised voices.
When Xavier shifts me ahead of him to present mypassport first, I can’t shake the feeling that he’s doing it to guarantee my passage, even if he doesn’t make it through himself.
The scanner maps my face, and I can't understand how I stay still, how I don’t break down in tears when the man behind the machine hands me my forged identification card and passport and moves on to Xavier. “Go on,” the attendant says when I don’t immediately leave my husband’s side.
The man squints at his monitor, lips pursed in reaction to a sudden loud beep.
Oh fuck.
Ohfuck.
When he turns to his supervisor and gestures oddly at the screen, I’m faint. Xavier remains nonchalant, the cap in his hands. Even in his exhausted and broken state, he effortlessly attracts attention. Someone is sure to recognize him.
They’re going to ruin this.
“Take off your jacket,” a security officer says. “Put it in the bin with your shoes, miss.”
My heart slams wildly as I unzip my jacket, suppressing a whimper when the movement irritates the raw injury hidden under my shirt. Just as I’m about to ruin everything, Xavier appears at my side, pressing a hand on my back to steady me—in more ways than one.
Without a word, he bends to remove my shoes, ignoring the odd glances from the impatient man waiting nearby. That man doesn’t realize I can barely stand, much less kneel to reach my boots. As we pass through the detector and are cleared to grab our items, I'm visibly shaking.
Get a grip, Sophie.
“Foot,” Xavier says, sliding a boot onto one foot and then the other.
“Sir?”
Xavier’s back stiffens.
My gaze shifts to the ceiling, hiding the horror that courses through me when the man motions for us to wait.
“X,” I breathe.We’re going to get caught.
