Cleared for Takeoff

Chapter 2 What He Chose

No one could pinpoint the exact moment it happened, but somehow Nicole had slipped ahead and taken the top spot in his heart.

He no longer called her Nicole. Now it was always "Nikki," warm and familiar on his tongue. Eleanor stayed plain Eleanor, nothing more.

Every time she worked up the courage to ask why, he would sigh with clear annoyance and throw the blame back at her. His eyes would narrow with disapproval as he said, "You're her older sister. Why are you getting so worked up over a simple nickname? No wonder your parents never liked you. I finally understand why."

He never saw the way Nicole taunted and insulted her right under his nose. Every single problem, he laid at Eleanor's feet.

It felt as if he had wiped clean the memory of the five long years they had spent side by side, morning to night. Now his gaze held only another woman's shadow.

'Never mind.' Eleanor bit down hard on her lip. The stinging pain from the wound on her forehead sliced through the haze in her mind and pulled her back to the present.

She glanced around the room. Everywhere she looked, faces wore the same mocking expressions.

"Poor Eleanor. What's the point of being such a badass pilot and chief captain if you can't even keep your husband or control your own sister?"

"She gave up a great position in air traffic control just to switch to commercial flying, all for one man."

"And now her little sister has stolen him right out from under her. That's honestly hilarious."

The words landed like tiny knives. Eleanor tried to curve her lips into a smile, but the heavy bitterness rising in her chest spread through every vein until she could not force even the smallest laugh.

She swallowed the ache in her chest, widened her eyes as much as she could, and refused to let the hot tears spill over.

With slow, heavy steps, she walked toward the medical station, each movement costing her more than anyone could see.

To the people watching, her slim figure only looked lonelier than ever.

The second she stepped inside, Nicole's soft, spoiled voice filled the air. "Winslow, my feet are killing me. Could you rub them for me, please? Pretty please?"

Eleanor froze in shock. Winslow, who had always been obsessed with cleanliness, dropped to his knees without a second thought. He took Nicole's feet in his hands and began massaging them gently.

He even asked in the tenderest voice, "Does that feel good? Am I pressing too hard? They smell really nice, by the way."

But only a few nights earlier, when Eleanor had simply asked him to help slip off her shoes, he had cut her off with clear impatience. "Eleanor, you're a grown woman. You have hands and feet of your own."

"Don't make me touch anything dirty."

Those two moments crashed together in her mind. Eleanor felt her heart break open with a bitter laugh she could not voice, yet fresh tears burned at the corners of her eyes.

She dropped her gaze and bit the inside of her lip until she tasted blood.

For Nicole, he could tolerate anything. Even something unpleasant became something sweet.

For Eleanor, the same rule turned into rejection. She was the one he called unclean.

The sight of the two of them smiling at each other in that moment felt like needles stabbing straight into her eyes. Her fingers clenched so tightly that the veins on the back of her hand stood out sharp and blue. She wanted to turn and run as far as her legs would carry her.

But in her rush, she accidentally pushed the door open wider.

"Sis, you finally made it?" Nicole called out, her voice light and sweet as candy. "Winslow is giving me the best foot massage right now. You probably get this kind of special treatment at home all the time, right?" She smiled with perfect innocence, but the smug gleam in her eyes could not be hidden.

The moment Winslow saw Eleanor, panic flashed across his face. He stood up quickly and hurried over, reaching out to help her to a bed. But as he got close, Eleanor instinctively stepped back again and again.

The thought of him touching her with the same hands he had just used on someone else made her stomach churn.

She turned straight to the doctor, Judith Braxton, and said clearly, "The cut on my forehead is hurting badly, and I feel dizzy and nauseous. Could you please take a look at it for me?"

Winslow's hand froze halfway in the air. After an awkward pause, he finally pulled it back. His face turned uncomfortable, as though he had only just noticed the bloody wound on her forehead. He spoke in a scolding yet caring tone. "How could you be so careless? You didn't even protect yourself properly on the plane. You know that if anything happens to you, it would break my heart."

As he spoke, those peach-blossom eyes filled with deep tenderness, as if he loved her more than anything in the world.

Eleanor almost laughed out loud from pure anger. She dug her nails hard into her palm, but felt nothing.

The wound was so obvious—bloody, still dripping—for everyone else to see. Yet somehow he had missed it completely.

Moments ago, he had blamed her for not protecting Nicole. Now he was blaming her for not taking care of herself.

The same man, wearing two completely opposite faces.

But this time, no matter what he said, Eleanor let the words pass straight through her. She no longer wanted to believe a single syllable.

"I hit my head because I was protecting Nicole," she said, her voice thick with bitter resentment. "So tell me, if I hadn't listened to you back then, should I have just ignored her from now on?"