Elena slowly picked up the book and closed it, barely marking the page. She already knew the text by heart—every comma, every inflection, every pause in Macondo. The gesture was gentle, almost tender, yet there was a sense of finality to it. She turned towards the window, beyond which the lights of Madrid’s runway were already flashing — yellow, like the watchful eyes of a nocturnal predator. In the reflection of the glass, she saw her own face: plain, without make-up, with barely noticeable dark circles under her eyes after sleepless nights spent not on entertainment or balls, but poring over reports from children’s homes she was secretly helping. Four billion euros. A figure that rang hollow, like an echo in an empty hall where there was no one to applaud. Books and Literature
‘I know,’ she replied at last.
Her voice was low and velvety, with a barely audible Bilbao accent that she had never tried to hide.
‘But I’m staying.’
There was neither triumph nor defiance in those three words. Only weariness—not from the journey, but from an endless game in which she had always been forced to stay one step ahead, because it was she who had to write the rules. Something ancient stirred within her once more: the loneliness she carried with her like a second skin. New York awaited her not for contracts, not for yachts and social engagements, but for a secret meeting of which no one knew — a meeting with a woman who had once been her nanny and was now slowly dying in a cramped flat in Brooklyn. Money could buy a plane. It could buy company. But it couldn’t buy the extra time needed to say ‘I’m sorry’ for all those years when Elena had hidden behind figures and business reports.
Alejandro blinked. For the first time in thirty years of flying, he felt as though the ground were shifting beneath his feet — not because of turbulence, but because of that unflinching gaze. Victoria had already opened her mouth, ready to intervene, but at that moment Enrique Santos stood up and coughed as if the air in the cabin had suddenly become too thick. He understood perfectly well: one wrong word — and the whole fragile facade, built on lies and self-assurance, would crumble. And Elena simply waited. She waited as only the ocean knows how to wait: calmly, without malice, without haste, knowing that every wave would return to him sooner or later.
The plane shuddered as it began its take-off run. In that vibration—in the faint tremor of the seat beneath Elena’s palms, in the barely perceptible smell of kerosene seeping through even the filters—there was something akin to a promise: the most important part was yet to come. And none of those on board had yet any inkling of how painful the fall would be for those accustomed to looking down on others from above.
The plane lifted off the ground with a gentle, almost imperceptible jolt — as if a huge living creature had finally decided to trust the air. Through the window, Madrid began to shrink, turning into a scattering of lights, like smouldering embers in an old fireplace. Elena stared down motionless and felt the familiar heaviness in her chest gradually lift. At altitude, where gravity and human hierarchies lost some of their power, she always found it easier to breathe.
Alejandro Martínez returned to the cockpit, but his irritation hadn’t gone away. It had settled inside him like fine metal dust beneath the skin: invisible, yet making its presence felt with every movement. He sank into the captain’s seat, mechanically checking the instruments with movements honed by thousands of flying hours, yet his thoughts stubbornly returned to the woman in 2A. To her calmness, in which there was neither submission nor arrogance. To the way she held the book — not as a symbol of refinement, but as something with which one could sit in silence for hours, as if with a close friend. From the other side of the door came Victoria’s muffled voice—she was already demanding champagne. He knew that tone well: resentment mixed with the firm conviction that the world was obliged to immediately compensate her for any, even the slightest, discomfort.
In first class, the air seemed to have thickened. Stewardess Sofia—still very young, with a flawless smile and eyes in which weariness had already taken root—approached Elena with a glass of water. No ice. No lemon. Just as she usually asked for when flying incognito. Enrique Santos noticed this from his seat and felt his stomach clench painfully. He knew Elena’s itineraries better than his own schedule. He knew how much she hated being recognised. And he understood that her modesty was neither a game nor a mask, but perhaps the only way left for her to breathe in a world where every other person was trying to take a bite out of her name.