The Revenge He Regretted

Chapter 2

POV: ADRIAN

She looked nothing like the woman I had spent three years hating.

That was the first thought when I saw Isabella Moretti standing on the tarmac with rain in her hair and a clipboard clutched against her chest. The second was that I had no right to be surprised. People changed. Prison had taught me that better than any lesson before it.

Still, I had imagined her differently.

For three years I had pictured her in warm rooms, clean clothes, meals she never needed to count. I had pictured her moving under Victor Moretti’s protection while I counted days for a crime I did not commit. The woman in front of me did not look comfortable. Her uniform was damp and stained. One sleeve was darker where she had tried to hide an injury. Her face carried the drawn look of someone who had spent too many nights awake and too many shifts on her feet.

I noticed all of it.

I refused to let any of it matter.

Pity was dangerous. I had watched it turn into weakness inside. I had promised myself I would not be weak again.

I released her wrist and stepped back. She cradled the injured arm against her body, papers scattered at her feet. A ground worker glanced our way and immediately found somewhere else to look. Smart man.

She crouched to gather the pages, favouring the left wrist, movements careful and inefficient. I watched without offering help. Every wince, every awkward reach, every attempt to keep the injury out of sight only confirmed what I already believed: she was still hiding things. She had always been good at that.

I turned toward the terminal before the silence could become another conversation.

The cold did not bother me as much as the sight of her had. I had expected satisfaction when I finally stood in front of her. Instead the old anger rose so cleanly it almost felt like relief. Three years of replaying the courtroom had sharpened it into something precise. I no longer needed to raise my voice. I only needed to look at her and remember.

I had been sentenced to fourteen years after the court accepted a story built from altered records and careful lies. I had known the cargo entries were wrong. I had questioned them. I had tried to find out who was using legitimate shipments to hide something illegal. I had thought the truth would protect me.

Then Isabella took the stand.

She did not claim she saw me load anything illegal. She did not say she watched me take money. She spoke about the questions I asked and the records I examined. Careful words. Measured pauses. In that courtroom they had been enough to turn suspicion into a chain around my life.

I remembered the exact moment I stopped hoping she would save me. It had not been the sentence. It had been earlier, when I understood she was not going to explain why she had turned against me. She had looked at me once, then lowered her eyes and continued answering as if the man she had promised to stand beside was already a stranger.

That memory followed me into prison and stayed long after I stopped counting the days.

Now she worked on the same airfield where I had come to rebuild.

Getting back into the air had not been simple. My licence had not erased the questions attached to the conviction. The years inside had left a blank space in my professional record, and no amount of preparation could make that space disappear. The aviation board wanted a full account of my history, including the period I had been unable to fly. They wanted explanations for the gaps in my logbook, evidence of recent proficiency, and quiet assurances that the judgement they were evaluating belonged to the pilot I was now rather than the man whose name had appeared in a criminal case.

I had spent weeks assembling records, obtaining certified documents, reviewing technical procedures, and preparing to answer questions that had nothing to do with how well I could fly an aircraft. One question had followed me through every assessment, even when no one spoke it aloud.

Could I be trusted?

I had learned to recognise the glances that carried it. I had also learned not to react. A pilot could not afford to lose control because somebody doubted him. Neither could a man who intended to rebuild his life.

The company had approved my return after its own checks. I had no authority over cargo staff. No power to hire or dismiss. Only a roster, a place to sleep, and a future that could still be taken if I gave anyone a reason to doubt me.

That should have been enough to keep me away from her.

Inside the terminal the air smelled of coffee, wet coats, and floor cleaner. I confirmed my name, signed the forms, answered the necessary questions. The staff member checking my documents paused at the conviction section. Her eyes lingered a second longer than protocol required. I answered without raising my voice. Anger could still be used against me. I would not give anyone that satisfaction.

When the paperwork was complete I was directed to the office where my schedule waited. I collected it, reviewed the first assignments, and filed the information away. Ordinary work. Ordinary days. That was the plan.

Then I saw her again.

She had come inside to return equipment. Damp strands of hair had escaped the tie at the back of her head. She kept her gaze on the counter, speaking quietly to the clerk. She did not look like a woman who had been waiting for my return. She looked like someone trying to finish a shift without drawing attention.

I should have walked past.

Instead I remembered the last time I had seen her before the trial. Standing in the doorway of my apartment with a mug in her hands while I talked about the cargo records. She had asked me to be careful. I had believed her concern was love.

That memory was worse than the courtroom. It made me question whether I had ever known her at all.

She noticed me and went still.

I crossed the short distance between us.

“Do you work in cargo operations?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Since before the trial.”

I let the silence sit. She had not asked how I got out. She had not asked if I was well. She had not asked anything that might suggest my life had mattered to her after the verdict.

“Did you ever think I would come back?”

“I did not know what would happen.”

“That is not an answer.”

“I do not have another one.”

I looked at her face, searching for some sign of the woman I had loved. I found fear, exhaustion, and something she was trying hard to hide. Guilt, perhaps. Or shame. I had spent too long inventing kinder explanations. I would not invent another now.

“You must have had a reason.”

She swallowed. “I cannot explain it here.”

“You had a courtroom. You had a judge. You had a chance to tell the truth when it mattered.”

Her face lost what little colour it had.

I wanted her to deny it. I wanted her to tell me I was wrong, even if I had to hate her for lying again. Instead she lowered her eyes.

A staff member called her name from the corridor. She turned toward the sound, grateful for the interruption.

“Go,” I said.

She hesitated.

“Do not mistake this for forgiveness.”

“I would never.”

The words came too quickly. For one second her face showed something beyond fear. Real pain.

I pushed the thought away.

She walked down the corridor without looking back.

I watched until she disappeared around the corner. Then I picked up my flight bag and continued toward the office where the rest of my schedule waited. I had worked too hard to return to this place. I would not let one meeting with Isabella pull me backward.

The more I saw of her life, the less it resembled the story I had spent three years telling myself. That did not change what I believed. It only made the wanting sharper.

I had returned to rebuild my life, but I would not let Isabella Moretti walk away from what she had done to mine.