The Unforgiving Beloved

The acrid smell of burnt fuel hung heavy in the air. Victoria Spencer leaned against the wreckage of a ground service vehicle, a gauze bandage wrapped around her wrist already showing the slow, persistent seep of blood.

Half an hour ago, a taxiing plane had suffered a catastrophic failure. She had been on duty nearby, and the concussive force of the accident threw her to the ground. The scene was pure chaos, her arm sliced open by a shard of aluminum in the pandemonium.

It was then, through the scattered crowd, that she saw a familiar figure.

Charles Smith, immaculate in his captain's uniform, was carrying the new chief flight attendant, Michelle Johnson, in his arms. 

Michelle's slender arms were wrapped around his neck, her face buried in his shoulder as if she were sobbing softly. 

Charles's steps were steady, his brow furrowed with concern as he murmured something down at her.

Victoria froze, the blood from her wrist dripping from her fingertips onto the tarmac. She wanted to call his name, but her throat felt constricted, as if clogged with dust and despair, rendering her mute.

They were getting closer.

Michelle seemed shaken but physically unharmed. Her delicate makeup was still perfectly intact, and a small, pink butterfly-shaped pin on her collar stood out as a startling detail against the backdrop of disarray. 

As she lifted her head, her gaze swept past Victoria. "Charles," she whispered, her voice just loud enough to carry, "that pregnant woman looks terrible. Is no one with her?"

Only then did Charles follow her line of sight.

His eyes landed on Victoria, and his brow twitched in a flicker of annoyance. But just as quickly, he averted his gaze, his attention returning to the woman in his arms. "The rescue crews are already here," he said in a low, dismissive tone. "We shouldn't get in their way."

With that, he turned, carrying Michelle toward another corridor without a single backward glance. 

Victoria watched his back disappear around the corner, her palm pressing tightly against her abdomen. 

A dull ache spread through her. She looked down and saw a dark patch spreading on her uniform trousers, a shade deeper than the navy fabric, a stain she hadn't noticed before.

"Victoria! You're bleeding!" A colleague cried out.

She was helped onto a stretcher, her vision swimming. As they carried her past a cluster of flight attendants and ground staff, their fragmented conversations pierced her ears like needles.

"Did you see that? Mr. Smith carried Michelle out the whole way! I heard when the accident happened, he rushed over to shield her immediately."

"They're such a perfect couple. Michelle was always Mr. Smith's first love, the golden couple of the flight academy back in the day. So many people felt bad for him when she went abroad for training."

"Exactly! I heard he pulled a lot of strings to get her transferred back from the international routes. Her skills are top-notch, she's gorgeous… Only a woman as radiant and captivating as her is worthy of our Mr. Smith."

"It's so sweet. I'm seriously shipping them."

Victoria's fingernails dug deep into her palm.

'Radiant and captivating.'

She glanced down at her own body, swollen and misshapen by pregnancy, and closed her eyes in exhaustion.

An old memory surfaced unbidden: the day she received her captain's license. The sunset had been beautiful, and she had run to find him, ecstatic. He had looked at her certificate, but his brow had creased into a frown.

"Victoria," he had said, his voice clipped, "I need a wife who prioritizes family, not a woman who is constantly showing off, flying around in the sky all day."

And so, she had only worn that captain's uniform once, in secret, on the day she earned it.

A cold wind gusted through the airport's main doors, slicing through her blood-and-dust-stained uniform.

After her wound was treated and the doctor confirmed the baby was unharmed, Victoria dragged her exhausted body home. 

Charles's sister, Lynn Smith, was sprawled on the sofa watching television. Hearing the door, she didn't even bother to look up. "You're finally back? Hurry up and make dinner, I'm starving. Oh, and hand-wash that dress of mine. Don't you dare throw it in the washing machine."

Victoria braced herself against the wall, slowly changing her shoes. Her abdomen felt heavy, a leaden weight, and the gauze on her wrist throbbed with a dull, persistent pain. She had no energy to deal with Lynn.

Seeing Victoria ignore her, Lynn padded over in her slippers, her eyes raking over Victoria with disdain. "Are you deaf? I said I'm hungry! Isn't it your job to do these things? Get to it!"

Victoria lifted her head and gave her a flat, emotionless look before walking straight past her toward the bedroom.

Lynn froze for a second, then her voice, shrill with indignation, chased after her. "What's with the attitude? Have you looked in a mirror lately? You're as fat as a pig, and you reek of bad luck! Charles must have had the worst luck in eight lifetimes to marry you! A bottom-tier ground crew grunt isn't even worthy of polishing his shoes! Just you wait. As soon as that baby is born, Charles will kick you out of this house!"

Victoria shut the bedroom door, cutting off the venomous words. She leaned against the wood, her body slowly sliding down until she was sitting on the floor. The gauze on her palm was faintly stained with fresh blood, and a desolate emptiness filled her heart.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket.

She fumbled for it. The screen displayed a call from her flight mentor, Professor Lincoln Jones.

"Hello, Mr. Jones?" She said, her voice hoarse.

"Victoria!" Lincoln's voice was as robust and direct as ever. "Listen, my airline is in urgent need of an experienced captain. Are you interested in coming over? The company can support you through the type rating transition training, and there will be opportunities for further studies abroad later on."

Victoria was stunned into silence.

A captain. Further studies.

Perhaps sensing her hesitation, Lincoln paused before asking tentatively, "What about Charles…"

"I'll do it," Victoria interrupted, without a shred of hesitation. "Thank you, Mr. Jones. I need this job."

After hanging up, she felt some of the profound exhaustion begin to lift from her body. Deep inside her, something felt like it was breaking out of a cocoon. She pushed herself up, opened the door, and went to pour herself a glass of water. It was foolish, she realized, that she hadn't even had a drink.

Just as she finished the water, Charles came home.

His eyes fell on her, and an involuntary frown creased his brow. He was about to look away when he noticed the bandage on her hand. The frown deepened.

"What happened?" He asked, his tone laced with undisguised annoyance.

"I got scraped at the accident site today," Victoria answered simply, her voice flat.

He pressed his lips into a thin line, not asking any more questions as he turned to hang his jacket on the coat rack. As he turned, Victoria saw it clearly: pinned to the lapel of his jacket was a small, pink, butterfly-shaped pin—identical to the one on the young woman's collar at the airport.

Her breath caught, an almost imperceptible hitch in her chest.

Charles, her husband, a man so meticulous he bordered on rigid, had always loathed any small, useless trinkets. For his birthday one year, she had given him a keychain she had hand-stitched with an airplane motif. He hadn't even looked at it before saying, "Don't waste your time on such childish things in the future."

It wasn't the childish trinkets he hated, she realized. He just hated the ones from her. A sharp pang of bitterness twisted in her chest, but she quickly suppressed it.

Charles finished hanging his jacket and loosened his tie. As if suddenly remembering something, he turned his head to look at her belly.

His voice was cool and detached as he finally spoke, "How many months along is the baby?"