The World Of Greed

1. Armelle Rosenheim

1. Yin And Yang

A busy passerby shoulder-swiped me as they walked past, the black coffee in my hand goes flying all over the floor. My lips pressed in a thin line behind my mask as I pushed my sunglasses over my head, somewhat relieved to find no traces of a stain on my clothes.

My eyes followed the trail of splatters until they stopped on a pair of sneakers. Berluti. Expensive and completely soaked in coffee.

I avoided eye contact since I had no intention to apologize for something I was not responsible for. My grip tightened on my bag, knowing that the man was about to lose his shıt over his ruined luxury shoes in three, two, one. . .

I looked back when I heard no complaints. His head was hung low as he waggled his feet to rid the remains of the dark beverage. Because of his masked face and my conventional height compared to his relatively towering one, I could make out a bulging vein on his forehead, glaring green eyes, and a grumble before he continued his walk towards the boarding gates.

I felt equal parts confoundment and gratitude.

My thoughts scattered as the line moved forward, and then it was my turn to give the tickets to the gate agent.

"Holy shıt! That's Armelle Rosenheim!"

I paused at the startled exclaim, a familiar chill swept over my skin and raised the hairs on the back of my neck. My head jerked up. I readjusted the mask on my face and pulled down my sunglasses.

Bored passersby stayed in the queue to board while the remaining waiting passengers ran to see what the commotion was about. 

Armelle Rosenheim. A retired professional figure-skater and her entourage stepped inside the port and strolled through the check-in area.

Within a few seconds, an army of camera-waving filth swarmed around the entrance and a surging crowd clamored for her attention. I could hear their questions, their dying curiosity to know why she had retired too soon. It was a nightmare. The walk must have felt like a mile long for her.

Because that was always the case for me. Now when I thought about what I was leaving behind, some of my anxiety reappeared.

My nails dug angry half-moons on my wrist at the thought.

I don’t do that anymore, I reminded myself as I finally got to the entrance of the plane and stepped inside. That was another part of my fresh start. I didn’t make myself bleed so I could stop feeling.

There was a smiling flight attendant at the entrance handing out antiseptic packets, which I declined. I wondered what I looked like to her. If I appeared as pale and out of sorts as I felt. Or if I just looked indifferent.

I’d always been on a private plane courtesy of the wealth of my father, Heath Rosenheim. But he was gone now, and my mother…along with her new fiancé had apparently thought that commercial was the way to go.

I examined my ticket and then started to scan the seats for 7C. The cream leather seats matched the outside of the pod and were at least three people wide. Flight attendants were walking along the square pods lined up down the aisle of the first-class with trays laden with bubbly flutes.

It was ten past four. I found 7C and leaned back into the comfortable seat while simultaneously taking off my sunglasses, so I could sleep for the rest of my flight.

7C was located in the center of the plane. The seats on the sides of the plane were solo seats not connected to anyone else, but the ones in the center of the plane were side by side with another pod. At least I would have privacy.