The Revenge He Regretted

POV: ISABELLA The cargo terminal was cold enough to numb my fingers, but nothing could have prepared me for the sight of Adrian Rossi stepping off the aircraft after three years in prison. The metal clip slipped from my injured hand. I caught it against the clipboard before it hit the ground, biting back a curse as pain shot through my left wrist. Rain swept across the tarmac, soaking my uniform while engines roared around me. A ground worker shouted instructions nearby. Warning lights flashed against the grey afternoon. I tightened my grip on the clipboard. I could not afford another mistake. My supervisor had already warned me about falling behind, and I needed this job too badly to give anyone a reason to replace me. I bent to retrieve the papers scattered near my boots. Then the aircraft door opened. A man descended the stairs. I recognised his stride before I saw his face. My fingers stopped moving. He stepped onto the wet concrete, wearing a dark coat that shifted in the wind. His hair was shorter than I remembered, his jaw more defined. He carried himself differently, too. His movements were measured, his shoulders squared, his gaze sweeping across the terminal before settling on anything in particular. Then his eyes found me. My stomach dropped. Adrian. For a moment, the noise around me seemed to recede. I heard only the rain striking the metal roof and the distant rumble of an aircraft engine. My pulse stumbled. I tightened my injured hand around the clipboard until pain forced me to loosen my grip. He was here. After everything, he was standing on the same stretch of concrete as me. And he was looking directly at me. I took one involuntary step backwards. His expression did not change. Then he started walking. Not towards the terminal entrance. Towards me. I forced myself to remain where I stood. My uniform clung damply to my skin, and the cold had settled into my bones, but neither mattered as much as the distance disappearing between us. He stopped a few feet away. Rain gathered on his shoulders. The air carried the sharp smell of aviation fuel, wet concrete, and the faint scent of soap from his coat. I had imagined seeing him again countless times. I had never imagined this version of him. “Adrian.” His eyes narrowed. “Do not.” The two words silenced everything I had been about to say. I swallowed. He looked at my uniform, the clipboard in my hands, and the damp papers sticking out beneath my arm. His gaze moved lower. To my wrist. I shifted it behind the clipboard. He noticed. “What happened to your hand?” “Nothing.” His eyes returned to my face. “You have always been a terrible liar.” The words struck somewhere I had no defence against. I looked towards the terminal doors. “I have work to do.” “So do I.” He moved when I tried to pass, blocking my path without touching me. I stopped. “You look different,” I said, hating myself for saying anything at all. A humourless smile touched his mouth. “And you look exactly like someone who thought she would never see me again.” “I did not know you were coming.” “Would that have changed anything?” I stared at him. There were answers I could have given. None would have survived the look on his face. His gaze dropped to my hand again. “Let me see.” “It is fine.” “I did not ask whether it was fine.” I pulled my arm closer to my body. For a moment, neither of us moved. Then he caught my wrist. Pain flashed up my arm. A sharp gasp escaped me before I could stop it, and the clipboard slipped from my other hand. Papers scattered across the wet concrete. “Adrian!” His fingers pressed directly against the swelling beneath my sleeve. He knew where it hurt. He had seen me hiding it, and he chose to press anyway. I stared at him, stunned by the deliberate pressure of his grip. His face remained still as he watched mine. “Still hiding things?” he asked. I tried to pull away. His grip tightened briefly. “Let go.” “Why? Afraid I might discover something else you have not told me?” “That is not fair.” A short laugh left him. “Fair?” He released me so abruptly that I stumbled backwards, catching myself against the work station. I cradled my wrist against my stomach. A worker glanced towards us before turning back to his task. Adrian did not even look at him. “You stood in front of a court and answered questions about me,” he said. “You told them about the cargo irregularities. You told them I had examined the documents. You gave them enough to make me look guilty, then stood there as though you were simply doing your duty.” “I answered the questions they asked me.” “And you answered them very well.” “You do not know what happened.” His expression sharpened. “Then tell me.” I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. The rain ran down my face. I could not tell whether my hands were shaking from the cold or from the man standing in front of me. He waited for only a moment. Then his mouth hardened. “That is what I thought.” I crouched to retrieve my papers. My wrist throbbed with every movement, so I gathered the pages with my right hand, one at a time. A sheet slid beneath an equipment trolley. I reached for it, but the movement sent another pulse of pain through my arm. I stopped, pressing my lips together. Adrian stood above me. He did not move to help. I retrieved the final sheet and rose carefully, holding the damp papers against my chest. When I looked up, he was still watching me. “You could have told them the truth,” he said. My fingers tightened around the papers. “I could not.” The words escaped before I could stop them. Something shifted in his expression, but it was not softness. It was the cold attention of a man who had heard too many excuses and had decided he would not entertain another. “You could not,” he repeated. I said nothing. “Interesting. You had no difficulty speaking when your words could send me away.” My throat tightened. I wanted to tell him that he did not understand. That there had been things at stake he could not see. That the woman standing before him had not walked into that courtroom untouched by what she was being asked to do. But I could not explain any of it without exposing the very thing I had tried to protect. And he had already decided what my silence meant. He stepped closer. I held my ground this time, even as every instinct urged me to move away. “Look at me, Isabella.” I raised my eyes. “You do not get to stand there and pretend that you were the only person who suffered.” “I never said I was.” “No. You just keep quiet and let everyone else draw their own conclusions.” His voice remained low. That made it worse. He was not shouting, not losing control, not allowing the anger to spill out in a way I could understand. He was choosing every word. “You took something from me that I cannot get back,” he continued. “My career. My freedom. Three years of my life. And now you expect me to believe you had no choice?” “I did not say that.” “Then what are you saying?” I looked at him. For one terrible second, I almost told him everything. Then I remembered what speaking could cost. My silence settled between us. Adrian gave a small nod, as though I had finally confirmed something he had known all along. “Of course.” He stepped back and adjusted his cuff. The gesture was ordinary, almost careless. It made the distance between the man I remembered and the stranger before me feel impossible to cross. I bent to collect the last paper I had missed. He watched me pick it up. Then he turned towards the aircraft. Relief came too quickly. I hated that, too. He had taken only a few steps when he stopped. I remained beside the work station, my injured wrist held against my body, the wet papers pressed between my fingers. He did not turn around. “Did you think three years in a cage would make me forget what your testimony cost me, Isabella?”