Chapter 1 – Waylon Samuel Thompson

Terra If life is a joke, then I’m the biggest idiot of them all. Everything I was holding hit the floor with a loud thud. Apples and oranges scattered like panicked ants fleeing a horror movie. I stumbled forward in silent prayer, hoping—desperately—that this was all just a dream. For two years, he chased me. For two years, we dated—and in all that time, he never laid a hand on me. He respected me. Loved me in ways I’d never known before. Last night was our first. This place was our place. That spot—right there—was where he imprinted himself on me for life. So why? “Why?” I muttered. As if to taunt me, he didn’t stop—he only moved faster. She screamed his name over and over again as he did the things that tore my heart into a million pieces. With one final thrust, she screamed, he groaned, and then... everything fell completely silent. Slowly, he rose to his feet. He turned around, running a hand through his damp hair. His body was covered in sweat. Their arousal lingered in the air—thick, suffocating, and deafening in its silence. “You said you loved me… Was it all a lie?” I asked, the words tasting like ash as they left my lips. Satisfaction bloomed on his face as his gaze devoured mine. He was enjoying this—he loved my pain. “No, Terra,” he said, shaking his head. He stepped forward and cupped my cheeks gently, mockingly. “It was a game.” SCREECH! The screeching tires outside jolted me awake. I groaned inwardly, rubbing my temples in a weak attempt to shake off the lingering dread. It had been five years since the last time I had that nightmare. Just a quick nap—and it already feels like coming back was a terrible idea. “Mommy, we’re here,” said the tiny man to my right. “Yes, we are. Uncle Max will be here to pick us up. Do you remember what he looks like?” “Of course I do. It’s only been a year. I’m not stupid,” he replied with a hint of sassy attitude. “Alright, you’re not. Why don’t you wake your sister while I call your uncle to let him know we’ve landed safely?” He turned around and gave his sister a rough tug. She had somehow slept through the entire flight—takeoff, turbulence, and landing included. “Wake up, dummy. Wake up—we’re here!” “Linney, be nice,” I warned with a glare. He sighed and gently tugged his sister’s shoulder. The tiny girl slowly stirred awake, rubbing her eyes. She reminded me so much of my younger self—safe, loved, naive, and protected. “Mommy are we there yet?” she asked, followed by a sleepy yawn. “Yes, baby. We’re here. Grab your bag and let’s go.” She did as told, but— “Mommy, carry me. I’m so tired,” she whined. “Oh, come on. You’re a big girl now. Walk by yourself,” my son argued. “Mommy…” my daughter cried, kicking up a fuss. “Come here,” I said, and she crawled into my arms, resting her head on my shoulder. “This is why Lynette’s going to be a spoiled brat when she grows up,” Linney tutted, marching ahead of me. I followed with a smile on my face. The two little ones were polar opposites. Linney took pride in the few minutes he had over his sister, acting like a brave, smart, responsible adult. Lynette, on the other hand, was just like me—everyone’s princess. Lazy, but loved and spoiled to no end. Honestly, if it weren’t for my mother, I don’t think I would’ve grown up to be this logical and responsible. We left the plane and stumbled into a sea of people trying to find their way around the bustling airport. With such heavy traffic, I was afraid my kids would get lost. “Linney, hand,” I said, extending mine toward him—but he refused. “It’s fine, Mommy. I’m a grown man now. I can take care of myself,” he announced proudly, then ran ahead. “Stay where I can see you,” I called after him. “Okay, Mommy! Trust me, I’m a grown-up now.” “Grown in the heart, but when are you going to grow out of calling me Mommy?” I teased, watching my son from a few feet away. I chuckled to myself. It always surprises me how he thinks he knows everything when he’s barely lived his life. But I know better than anyone the consequences of growing up. My mother used to tell us that even in our twenties, she still saw us as kids. Back then, I didn’t understand her words—but now I do. I finally understand why a mother feels that way. A mother’s instinct never runs dry. As children, we trip, fall, and get right back up within the safety of our small, protected bubble. But as we grow older, we begin to wander into the harshness of the outside world. As adults, when we trip and fall, the consequences are far more serious than a scraped knee or a bump on the head. A mother knows this better than anyone—and that’s why we never stop worrying. “Mommy, hurry up!” my son called from a distance. “Wait for me!” I called back, and he stopped in his tracks. But just as he stood still in the middle of the intersection, I heard the rumble of wheels behind him—a cart, piled three stories high with suitcases, came barreling toward him. I panicked and jumped into action. Only—I couldn’t make it in time. “Linney, look out!” I screamed. And then—I saw nothing but my son, unconscious on the floor. I quickly set my daughter down and rushed forward, pushing the heavy suitcases away with trembling hands. “Linney!” I screamed, my voice cracking with fear. My heart pounded in my chest as tears blurred my vision. I clawed through the mountain of luggage, panic rising with every second. “Linney! Answer me if you can hear me!” I cried out desperately, choking on the knot in my throat. There was nothing. No reply. No movement. My cries turned into sobs as I frantically pulled at the luggage, praying—begging—that my son was unharmed. “Mommy!” His voice finally pierced through the chaos, muffled but clear, and my heart sank with overwhelming relief. With help from airport security and kind passersby, we cleared the last of the suitcase. At the bottom of it all, a man lay shielding my son with his body—arms wrapped protectively around him. Linney crawled out of the man’s embrace and ran to me, crying. I dropped to my knees, and inspect him for damage. To my relief—no bruises, no cuts, no broken bones. He was okay. “Thank God you’re okay.” I hugged and kissed my son, overwhelmed with both relief and heartbreak. For a moment, I was sure my heart had stopped beating the instant I saw him in danger. After a small mental breakdown and a few deep breaths, I turned to the man who had shielded my son, ready to thank him properly. The moment I saw the blood on his forehead, I pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it gently against the wound. “Thank you so much for saving my son,” I said, still trembling. “Please, let me—” I froze. My breath caught in my throat as I looked up—straight into a pair of familiar eyes. It was him—Travis Summers. He looked at me, just as dumbfounded as I was. “Mr. Thompson are you alright?” a worried man rushed over, breaking the trance that had held us captive. “I’m okay,” he replied, his voice steady but strained. “But the kid…” “He’s fine,” I cut in quickly. “Thank you for saving him. And as for your injury—I’ll take full responsibility.” I pulled a business card from my wallet and handed it to him. “Have the hospital send the bill to me.” Without another word, I took both my children by the hand and walked away, refusing to look back. “Mommy, who was that?” my son asked curiously. “I don’t know, Linney,” I replied quickly, trying to get us out of there as fast as possible. I went into autopilot mode and quickly retrieved our bags from the carousel. On our way out, something stopped me dead in my tracks. Projected on the giant screen was the profile of a man who looked exactly like Travis Summers—except the name spelled out beneath it read: Waylon Samuel Thompson, CEO of Samaritan Airport. I thought I knew him… but it seems I never really did.