At the airport, I sat near Gate 18, sipping quietly on a paper cup of coffee, staring at the glowing screen of my phone. I let myself smile. My life was beginning—at the exact moment they thought they had erased me.
I was mid-scroll through a rooftop restaurant review when a familiar voice sliced through the air.
“Shit. My passport—where is it?”
Camille.
I froze. They were across the terminal, laughing, wheeling their designer luggage, wrapped in joy. My father, David, adjusting his tie. My son’s wife snapping a picture of the group. And Camille—rummaging through her purse, visibly agitated.
I doubt if they would even notice me as they’re busy on their own lives.
Kier rubbed his forehead. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Didn’t Erika pack it for you?”
Camille blinked. “No, I… I asked her, but I don’t know if she—”
“Damn that useless bitch. I told her to check everything,” Kier muttered, pulling out his phone. “I’ll call her. She can drop it off. It’s not like she’s busy.”
Of course.
Even now. Even after everything—they still expected me to fix their mess.
My phone rang.
Kier.
Then a message.
Kier: Camille left her passport. Can you bring it to Terminal 2? We’re at Gate 7. ASAP.