Page 89 of Mile High Ruin

By the time we climbed into the back seat, he was already acting as though getting shot was something that happened between appointments rather than a reason to slow down.

The car crosses a wide boulevard, and Bucharest opens around us in a way I was not prepared for.

I’ve been to dozens of cities as cabin crew, though most of them exist in my memory as airports, hotel lobbies, shuttle routes, and whatever I could fit into twenty-four-hour layovers. Paris is a croissant eaten half-asleep beside the Seine before reporting back to Charles de Gaulle. Singapore is the view from a hotel pool I used for exactly forty minutes. New York is not the skyline, but crew security at five in the morning.

Travel becomes strange when it’s your job. You simply pass through a city.

Bucharest feels different tonight, because I was never supposed to have time to see it at all.

The streets are broad and unexpectedly grand, lined with old European buildings whose facades glow amber beneath the streetlights. Some are ornate, with columns and balconies that look almost Parisian, while others bear the heavy gray geometry of another era. Cafés remain open behind tall windows, their terraces half-full despite the hour. Orthodox domes rise unexpectedly between apartment blocks, and farther ahead I catch glimpses of glass towers reflecting the traffic.

I like this city.

Then Marek turns onto a quieter avenue. The buildings become larger. More elegant. We pass iron gates, embassies, dark gardens. Finally, the car slows beneath a porte cochère glowing with warm light.

I look up.

The hotel is enormous.

Not a chain hotel enormous, either. This is something different.

Its stone facade stretches across most of the block, pale limestone rising several stories above us with tall arched windows and carved balconies. Flags move lazily above the entrance. Two doormen in dark coats step forward before the car has fully stopped, and through the glass doors I can see a lobby of marble floors, chandeliers, and floral arrangements large enough to require their own irrigation system.

I stare. “This is where you’re staying?”

Vadim looks at the building as though he has never considered it noteworthy. “Yes.”

“Of course it is.”

Marek gets out first. A doorman opens my side. Cold night air rushes in.

I climb out slowly, smoothing my skirt automatically. The habit is ridiculous. I have spent years walking into beautiful hotels in uniform, pulling a crew suitcase behind me while trying not to look impressed.

There’s always a crew entrance. A discounted room block. A lobby we cross quickly because someone else is paying and we’re not supposed to linger near the guests.

This is different.

Nobody redirects us. Nobody asks for identification.

The hotel manager himself appears before Vadim has taken three steps. “Mr. Chernovar.”

Vadim barely acknowledges him. His hand settles lightly at the small of my back.

The gesture should feel possessive.

It does. The problem is that I’m beginning to like it.

We walk into the lobby together, beneath a chandelier that looks like it could crush a small car. I suddenly become acutely aware of my wrinkled uniform, my tired face, the fading mark on my cheek, and the fact that less than an hour ago I was moaning into the neck of the silver-haired man beside me while one of his employees pretended not to listen.

This is officially the strangest layover of my career.

14

VADIM

Sloane stands in the middle of the suite wearing the same uniform she has been trapped in for most of the day, looking around as though she has only just realized that accepting my invitation to stay here created a practical problem neither of us considered.

“I don’t have any clothes.”