Page 141 of Reverie

But a sadist? NotmyHunter.

The rest of the article is much of the same: ex-lovers of my now-husband coming forward to tell tales of how abusive, violent, and sadistic he is. There are close-up pictures of bruises and abrasions—all allegedly left by Hunter.

This isn’t happening. This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. This isn’t real.

Movement at the front of the airplane distracts me from my spiral, and I watch as Hunter and Jami meet at the galley. Hunter steps around her, but when they turn sideways, I watch as Jami sticks her tits out and Hunter rubs against her.

The way she tilts her head to look at him, her expression…was she one of his submissives?

I tell myself that Hunter doesn’t intend for any part of him to touch her. That same voice urges me to give Hunter the benefit of the doubt. It screams that this article is likely another focused effort by The Legion to discredit Hunter, to paint him with a black brush of violence and deception.

They’re playing their game.

But the louder voice yells at me that, of course, he’d be with someone like Jami. That same loud, loud,loudvoice says clearly:Do you really know him?

Hunter stalks toward me, his face serious but also closed off. I want to keep my eyes on him, but the longer I do so, the more I want to devolve into hysteria. I close down the iPad screen and turn away, leaning over to open the window blind.

I feel the air shift when Hunter takes the seat next to me, and theclickof his lap belt sliding home makes me flinch.

I’ve never been more invested in the movements of the ground crew than I am at this moment. I’m transfixed as I watch them fuel the plane.

“Sunbeam?” Hunter’s voice is close to my ear, and I want to throw up and cry and rage and scream when his hand presses to mine.

I’m being a total psychopath right now. And yes, I know that’s not a fair or proper statement from an almost-psychologist.

Can I even say I’m an almost-psychologist at this point? Two semesters have passed, and I’ve made no progress.

I just want things to go back to normal.

…whatever that is.

The forward door closes with a deepthunk,and I start to breathe again when the plane shifts as the cargo doors close below.

“Here’s your sweet tea,” Jami says from my left, and I feel the bitchiness on my face as I allow my eyes to land on her. She puts the tea on the small woodgrain table. “I also brought you some lemon and extra sugar packets. Just in case you want it sweeter.”

Her words are innocuous enough, but I know cattiness when I hear it. Lord knows I’ve watched enough reality TV with Veronica to write a dissertation about it.

My face burns again as memories of me and Veronica surface. Hunter laces our fingers together and I freeze.

“And Mr. Brigham, what can I get you?” Jami asks. I put my hand on my knee to stop it from bouncing.

“Nothing. Thanks,” Hunter says. He squeezes my hand tighter, likely sensing my distress.

But when Jami leans over Hunter, reaching for the tri-fold safety information cards affixed to the wall, I hit my limit, because not only does she put a hand on Hunter’s thigh, but herbreasts are at his eye level, her shirt gaping open to showcase the lacy bra beneath her crisp button down.

But instead of jumping up and throwing my likely too-sweet tea in her face or stomping on Hunter’s foot while I scream at him, I freeze.

I go within myself.

I let it happen.

“I don’t need you to give me the safety instructions. Just do your demonstration,” Hunter says, his tone sharp and dark.

And dominant.

Hunter needs control like he needs air….

“Do it over there,” he says, pointing to the front row near the front of the plane. Smiling brightly at Hunter, she says, “Certainly, Mr. Brigham,” and heads off to the front of the plane.