India.

First Class

Everything was exactly the way we like it: the snap of crystal, the smell of fresh pastries, hot towels hitting your palms, and that lazy, dominant certainty that life can be generous.
Nate was dozing across the aisle, his sweater thrown over Roman — completely at ease, as if flying was just another Tuesday for him.
Josh instantly realized there was nothing to hunt here and passed out — with that ridiculous snore of his.
I laughed.
But Jonathan.
Jonathan sat like a man who could command even the clouds.
SFO down to the bone — immaculate, a bit smug, like the plane was registered in his name.
And the fact he’s a Sagittarius only adds fuel.
They always start with the ego and the smirk — everything else comes later.
The flight attendants were glowing around him.
One handed him tea like she was giving him a national award;
another straightened a blanket that was already perfect.
I had to bite my lip not to smile.
Someone was clearly at the top of the list.
“Sir, may I top up your Dom Pérignon?”
He lifted his eyes — and that was it.
Not cold, not aloof — the opposite: warm, polite, almost too gentle.
That exact smile that ruins people’s life plans.
“Of course,” he said softly — like he was the one asking.
She froze for a moment, then poured — too carefully, fingers shaking, like she was scared to spill not champagne but her future.
I already felt the storm coming.
That smile of his — quiet, innocent, a bit sly — has won us more than one contract.
Poor girl.
She has no idea she just stepped onto a minefield.
A couple of minutes later she came back — allegedly to “check” the glass.
Her fingers hovered again, adjusting a perfectly centered stem, then she glanced up, quick and hopeful.
He gave her a short, polite look, with a hint of confusion —
and that alone made her blush all the way to the ears.
And then — ding! — my screen lit up.
A new group chat, freshly created:
“Who’s having plane sex today?”
Author: obviously, The Aristocrat.
Apparently he wasn’t asleep at all — he just lives for moments

Arrival.

The plane starts descending, and I feel a slight nausea — not sickness, more like a warning.
The engines quiet down, the door opens lazily, unhurried,
and a blast of hot air smacks me in the face — like someone pointed a hair dryer on max directly at me.
The heat rises straight from the asphalt, stings my eyes,
and my hair sticks to my temples instantly.
Mother of God.
The temperature drop hits the body —
the air-conditioned chill behind us,
and out here it’s like breathing a soup made of dust and sunlight.
The guys shield their eyes,
the girls laugh,
someone squints as if seeing daylight for the first time.
We’re walking light — the luggage is already ahead somewhere,
and a guy in uniform walks with us — quick, unbothered.
At the exit — a man in a perfectly ironed shirt
holding a sign where our last names are spelled wrong.
He beams:
“Hello, mam, very welcome in the Delhi international airport, temperature outside only forty-two degree, very pleasant!”
I nod, pretend I’m understanding every word,
though my entire brain is just:
“Forty-two is pleasant? Seriously?”
The Aristocrat messages the group instantly:
“I’ve spoken English since birth and I still didn’t understand him.
Google translates it as: ‘Welcome to the oven.’”
The Adventuress replies in a second:
“Feels like I’m already medium rare.”
Aristocrat glances at the man with the sign:
“Well… accents really are a fascinating topic. Truly.”
(turns to me, eyes narrowed with mischief)
“Sweetheart, remind me again… how do you correctly pronounce congratulations?”
Everyone starts smiling.
Nate leans in
and kisses my forehead gently — like he’s whispering without words: you’re perfect.
I look around, stunned, whispering almost to myself:
“Wait… is it really that bad?”
Everyone bursts out laughing.
The Aristocrat, wiping tears already:
“Oh darling. Worse.
At this point I think you’re about to become the official mascot of Indian tourism.”
“Oh, shut up!”
We walk through a cool corridor, past long queues,
through the smell of AC, spices, and wet air.
The man with the sign is proud and calm,
absolutely convinced he said something wonderfully polite.
And I’m thinking:
that’s it.
First class is over —
India has begun.

Outside, everything is already staged.
The asphalt gleams, people move with perfect timing, like the scene was rehearsed.
Security meets us at the exit — precise gestures, slight bows, a hand offered just so.
Everything polite, measured, choreographed — no pushing, no chaos.
I’m laughing with Roman,
the sun flashes straight into my eyes — a disaster, I see nothing.
My heel slips on a step — I nearly stumble.
A guard lunges forward — pure reflex, just trying to help.
And then — Nate.
He catches me, steadies me by the waist.
His voice — short, rough, sharp, without a drop of politeness.
A direct stare.
The words come out more like a growl:
“Don’t touch her.”
There’s no delicacy.
Not even an attempt to explain.
Just: My territory. My woman.
The air practically cuts the skin.
The guard steps back instantly.
I bite my lip. Hard.
The Aristocrat is the first to break the silence — his voice a mix of laughter, admiration, and that perfect “I see exactly what just happened”:
“Damn, brother… you really did that.
Territory officially marked.”
Nate doesn’t even look at him —
still furious.
The Aristocrat claps his hands — loud, almost ceremonial:
“Well then… after something like this, gentlemen, we have only one ritual left.”
He turns, folding his hands theatrically,
in that pompous tone people use for prayers or the opening of hunting season:
“Jonathan, dear, it’s your scene.
Please present your device for individual territorial signaling.”
Jonathan looks up from his phone, eyebrow raised:
“No.”
“Alright then. Fair enough.”
The Aristocrat dips his head slightly, as if blessing himself.
“Well. I’ll go… mark the perimeter around the Porsche.
Gotta secure the final chord.
Before this place completely loses its standards.”

Porsche

Ahead of us, three identical Porsche Cayenne Turbo S SUVs — black as sin, gleaming with mirror-dark tint.
V8, 4.0 liters, twin-turbo, 680 horsepower and 900 N·m of torque.
Zero to a hundred in 3.8 seconds.
Top speed — 295 km/h, and even then the engine still has breath to spare.
“Guys… am I the only one who’s suddenly wet?” — the Adventurer.
“Oh my God, Cody!” — I burst out laughing. — “Roman is right here!”
The engines are already running, heat rising off the asphalt in waves.
The men head to their cars.
The Aristocrat takes the keys first — the way he always does, beautifully,
as if every detail of the frame must be perfect.
Jonathan checks his watch, throws a short glance at Nate —
the signal clear without words.
Nate is the last one.
He extends his hand — and the security guard immediately hands him the keys.
There’s still tension in the air — quiet and dense.
The engines roar — low, like a rumble of thunder.
The convoy moves.
The road
The first to react is the Aristocrat:
“Okay, guys… what was that?
Did a fifty-cc rickshaw just overtake us on the right?
Please tell me that was a dream.”
It wasn’t a dream.
The rickshaw shoots past — poisonous yellow, rattling, smoking,
and stuffed so full it looks like an entire family clan has moved inside.
I see legs, elbows, bags, and a peacefully seated chicken…
it’s a phantasmagoria.
The Adventurer on the radio:
“I saw a chicken between the suitcases.
Between. The suitcases.
I’m not even sure it was in a cage.”
Jonathan, like a surgeon:
“There are: three adults, two kids, one teenager, a chicken, another chicken, and something that looks like an iron.
Don’t ask.”
The Aristocrat sighs:
“How is all of that even holding together?..”
But India wasn’t done.
A motorcycle appears.
On it — a man.
Behind him — his wife.
Behind her — a child.
Behind the child — another one.
And on top of all that — the driver holding a huge cardboard box.
The Adventurer:
“Are they transporting a fridge?
Please say no.”
Jonathan:
“Yes.”
“On a motorcycle?!”
“On a motorcycle.”
The man rides past us, smiling like we’re old friends,
and even lifts his hand: “It’s all good, brother.”
Meaning: we, three Porsches, look like we came to a kids’ bumper-car park.
Nate is the only one not laughing.
He drives as if he’s running an operation:
“Stay in the center lane.
Bus on the right.
Cow on the left.
We go around.”
I turn my head —
and yes.
A cow is walking in the lane with the kind of dignity
that says she’s the chairman of the road committee.
The Aristocrat:
“She’s the queen of this highway.
She doesn’t even look at us.
She looks through us.”
The Adventurer whispers:
“The bus winked at the cow.
I saw it.
It winked.
Like: ‘Pardon me, madam, after you.’”
The cow slows down,
stops exactly between our cars,
looks at us with the expression:
“I was born here. I’m in charge.”
Jonathan immediately:
“Okay. We stop.
Very respectfully.
With maximum reverence.”
The Aristocrat:
“She’s evaluating.
She’s deciding if we’re allowed to continue.
Although…
it seems your face already impressed her.”
The cow takes one step aside.
Dry, precise — like a boss:
“Go.”
And we move.
The Adventurer:
“I have never been this close to receiving a blessing from a cow.
This is a spiritual experience.”
The Aristocrat:
“No, darling…
you passed the local face-control.
You’re officially allowed in.”
Jonathan:
“And all this… without a traffic light.
My God…”
Nate quietly:
“Hold steady.
Drive.”
In this madness, everyone keeps their focus like a Vogue frame.
Three Porsches, sunglasses, calm faces.
Main rule: don’t look inside the cabin.
And around us — rattling rickshaws, kids, refrigerators, cows, sacred chaos.
Hotel.
We finally reach the hotel.
The doors swing open — heat and light rush into the cabin.
“Oh—” I groan, “I hate the heaaaat…”
He steps out first — confident, unhurried.
Opens my door and offers his hand.
The moment I get out — he pulls me in sharply;
his kiss burns so much that India’s heat feels cool.
I laugh, push against his chest, flushed all over:
“Oh my God… you’re impossible!”
He doesn’t step back; it only cements his intention.
“Stop it, you’re insane…” I whisper, laughing.

Hotel Lobby

And the world changes temperature in an instant.
The coolness of the lobby meets us like an ocean — immediately, sharply, with the humid sigh of the air conditioner.
There’s a hint of jasmine somewhere, wet stone, old wood,
and for a second it almost feels like a loss —
as if the heat outside wasn’t just heat, but life itself, loud, bright, shameless.
Here everything is softer, lower, slower.
Footsteps are muffled by the carpet,
the sound of the fountain is like steady breathing.
Sophie has already taken the children somewhere — where the light falls across the marble and the water catches their laughter.
Roman is standing over the fountain,
counting fish, moving his lips,
then waving at me — focused, grown-up, as if convinced this is what decides when we get our room.
Water splashes him, he bursts out laughing.
My boy, my reward.
I walk up to the front desk and silently pray Jonathan is handling all of this.
The receptionist speaks quickly,
the smile flat and mask-like,
hands moving, documents flashing.
I listen but don’t hear — I only feel how the fabric of my dress clings to my back, how my skin drinks the cold.
He keeps explaining, checking boxes,
and I can’t take it anymore; softly, almost tiredly, I interrupt:
“Excuse me, could we please check in? We really need to rest.”
He nods, smiles a little wider,
but his fingers still drum across the keyboard.
Keys clicking — steady, hypnotic.
They take too long to give us the keys, far too long,
and time begins to stretch,
turning viscous, like the air outside.
Behind me, the familiar quiet bustle brews.
Jonathan, waiting, adjusts his sleeves, takes off his jacket and puts it on again —
he doesn’t know how to simply be tired.
The Aristocrat has already found a sofa and nearly dissolved into it:
leg over leg, chin resting on his hand.
Nate stands slightly aside,
talking to an elderly woman in a silk sari.
She’s holding onto his arm, telling him about her dog,
her grandson, the weather.
He listens.
Truly listens.
He listens in a way that makes people feel as if they’ve come back to life.
She laughs, blushes, invites him over.
He smiles, and I see
her shoulders straighten,
as if she grew younger by several years right before his eyes.
I turn to Roman, to his laughing eyes,
and feel the day finally recede.
It smells of jasmine, water, skin,
and that scent feels like a promise that now everything can be slow.
Another moment — and finally the keys land in my hand.
Cold. Heavy.
The sound of metal in my palm — a quiet chime.
I exhale.
The Aristocrat rises lazily,
Jonathan checks his watch again,
Nate turns toward me.

Elevator.

The doors close softly; the noise of the lobby stays outside.
At last, we’re alone.
Everything in me calls for him — skin, breath, the tremor under my ribs.
He reaches for me, but something in his gaze shifts the air: the warmth coils into heat, into a hum in my temples.
The world seems to step back.
I look at him — something is wrong.
My own voice feels distant, as if through water.
I get angry.
How dare he not throw himself at me right now?
I want to say it — but my tongue won’t obey.

Presidential Suite 1501

I open my eyes. Cool air.
Oh, how good it feels — silk gliding across my skin like wind over water.
God, my head is ringing.
He’s gone. Strange.
I desperately need to pee.
“Okay. First the bathroom, then I’ll find everyone.”
The ringing grows stronger, and the smell comes first:
alcohol, clinical sterility, that faint trace of solution they use to prep skin before a needle.
An IV, a neat dressing at the crook of my elbow, a sterile pad beside me.
Everything done calmly, everything done right.
I peel my wrist free from the tape.
The catheter slides out smoothly — one motion, that’s it.
I set the gauze aside.
Feet on the floor — the cold shoots up to my knees instantly.
The body is weak but obedient.
As if I’m waking not from sleep, but from a too-long pause where everything in me was deliberately slowed.
I straighten carefully, gathering my muscles.
Right. Again:
“Bathroom first. Then the bar.”
My step is steady, even if slow.
On the way, I strip off the second adhesive strip from my ribs — irritated, because it clings like it wants to hold on.
“Oh, let go.”
I open the door.
He’s standing there, hand on the bridge of his nose, muttering something.
Damn.
Rapid assessment: the small vessels along the side of his neck are pulsing faster than normal; trapezius muscles tight; breathing accelerated — I count 22–28 breaths per minute; rhythm off, maybe slight extrasystole; pulse visible in both temples and neck — vessels in spasm; occasionally skipping a breath — meaning the nervous system is having brief “breaks.”
Clear.
“Sweetheart…”
He flinches. His brain fires the analysis instantly.
Pronounced redness of the sclera, a glassy sheen on top like a thin film — cortisol.
Micro-tremor of the eyelids, involuntary twitch in the shoulder and corner of his mouth, delayed reaction to sound — brain “in fog.”
Conclusion: prolonged stress. Normal response. Next — sharp adrenaline spikes. Nervousness. Irritability.
“Oh, darling, hi… is it really you?” he snaps to attention. “You shouldn’t be standing, please, lie down.”
“I’m fine!”
“My God, I’m begging you, please!”
“No! And don’t you dare speak to me like that!”
He drops to his knees, voice cracking:
“I was so scared. You were unconscious for two days.”
So now you’re the victim? You were the one passed out?
“Sweetheart, that’s not what I meant…”
“Go to hell!”
The taste of metal floods my mouth. I wipe my lips, saliva running uncontrollably; I can’t feel my lips.
I know what comes next. I have to move fast.
In fury I slam the door, anger pounding through my body with adrenaline.
Damn him!
How could he—
A sharp high-pitched tone pierces my skull, forcing me to double over.
My stomach aches, then numbs, and the second lip slackens; spit soaking my whole shirt.
I should really pull myself together.
Sudden realization:
Two days.
He said… two days?!
I run out into the hallway.

Hallway.

Cold air hit my face — like a slap.
The body switched on instantly.
The vessels tightened and the heart accelerated.
Adrenaline fired again and spread through my blood.
My head spun; I shook it, trying to get my focus back.
The hallway stretched into a tunnel, the light blinding, the walls merging into one.
Only one thought pounding in my head: my son.
He catches up to me:
“Sweetheart… Roman is here, he slept next to you, and the guys are here.”
Pull yourself together, this isn’t your childhood, this is different now, this won’t repeat. — I mutter my mantra.
“Ground yourself… ground yourself,” — my therapist’s voice.
He takes my hand, places it on the wall, then on his chest.
“I feel… I feel…” — I whisper. Panic pulls back.
“Step away!” — I shout. He steps back.
Arms spread out to the sides like a defensive circle — distance.
Almost ground. I need to regain control. Blind, seeing only large blurs everywhere.
“See? You’re not locked in. This isn’t your childhood. Breathe.” — another mantra.
“Further!” — I’m screaming now. He steps back. I exhale.
Staggering; my vision smears — nothing but blurs.
Damn it, just blurs.
I have to make it.
The corridor light spills into the room, and I see my son.
“Oh my God… Roman, my boy, my salvation.”
I lunge forward — and collapse instantly. He rushes toward me.
“I can do it. I will. I can handle this…” — but the world fades again.

Morning

Morning arrives with pain and yet a strange calm.
Spirits push buttons, and I jerk like a marionette.
The devil laughs:
“Did you enjoy that, baby?”
Go to hell.
Trying to think.
Come on, pull yourself together.
Tears stream down my cheeks.
No, no, no.
My God, I’m my own psychologist.
Okay: the one telling me to get it together — that’s my masculine side.
The one crying — the child.
The rest came, as always, just to laugh.
Wires everywhere, the stench of medical products and machines, some kind of scar.
Everything white and disgusting.
I hate it. I hate hospitals.
What do we have here:
saline — dehydration, obviously;
glucose — exhaustion, that fits;
magnesium — to stabilize the nervous system, I’ve been taking that since I was thirteen;
electrolytes — to stop the ringing, spasms, weakness.
Whiskey would’ve handled this better.
I fall back on the bed.
“Ugh, I hate this.”
“You’d complain less.”
I scoff.
He’s by the window.
Fresh, clean-shaven.
Magnificent, as if nothing happened.
I have a couple of minutes before he reads my thoughts and turns around.
A quick scan: we’re alone, no one here.
He’s fresh — means he processed everything overnight; the room is clean — he knows, he got his mind in order;
on his wrist — the Philippe Patek, meaning he’s in sports mode.
Which means everything is business: the first shock has passed.
Damn, and I…
Well then.
I know I was wrong, yelling at him yesterday.
Maybe pretend to be delirious?
Oh, shut up.
What? You look the part…
I hiss:
“Leave me alone.”
Hades doubles over laughing:
“Hey baby, want to go for another walk? Out there you’ve got your favorite weather: from ‘plus forty’ to ‘drag me back from the dead.’”
I swat the thought away.
Right. I hate apologizing…
He turns:
“My angel.”
I blush. Oh great, as if I’m an angel.
“You sure are,” — Hades.
“Shoo!”
“I’m sorry I didn’t warn you.”
“It’s all right.”
“Please, explain what that was,” — he takes my hands in his.
“I can’t be in the sun. I mean, I can for a bit, but not too long, especially in this kind of strong heat. When I was eighteen, they saved me, but it was very serious — the doctor said I wouldn’t live till the end of the week… but it’s fine, it’s fine,” — I explain breathlessly.
He just exhales and pulls me into a hug.
It seemed like he was crying.
But I didn’t want to ask.
Hades giggles:
“Well, that’s it, girls… let me grab the festive napkins. Pink. With glitter.”
I growl:
“Don’t you dare, Hades.”
“But he’s CRYING, baby. Cry-ing! I’ve been waiting to see this since the moment you met!
Oh God, no, he’s not perfect! Can’t believe it!”
“I said: it seemed like he was crying.”
“Of course, sweetheart. Keep telling yourself that.”
“Oh my God…”
“Oh come on! Let the man finish crying! He’s having a masculinity crisis!”
Megaphone hands:
“JONATHAN! JOOOOSH! GUYS!
Your girl is CRYING!”
Me:
“Hades!”
“What? I’m just calling the ones who enjoy a good drama. You wouldn’t want to deprive them of a show, would you?”
I close my eyes, counting to three,
and he disappears as abruptly as he appeared.
The whole internal crowd fades, dissolves,
leaving silence.
And now — just the room again.
Just the breathing.
Just him.
Only me and him.
Only me and him.
Thank God he’s here. I’ll try to sleep a little more.
Although… wait a second.
I brighten instantly.
Since it’s just me and him…
My eyes glint mischievously and I purr:
“Nate?”
He understands immediately and laughs:
“Sweetheart, you’re still too weak.”
“Oh, you bore…”