Chapter 33
Callum
The first-class cabin was calm by design—soft lighting, carpeted silence, and the curated hush of affluence.
No announcements. No scramble for overhead compartments.
Just the low murmur of conversation, a glass clink here and there, and the slow parade of the rest of the aircraft hidden behind the curtain.
A flight attendant with a sleek blonde chignon appeared at my side, her smile polished and professional. “May I take your jacket?” she asked, her English accent crisply enunciated. One step closer to home.
“Yes, thank you.” I slipped off my blazer, handed it over, and stowed my carry-on in the overhead locker.
I slid down the central divider between our pods, and there she was—curled into the cocoon of her seat, wide-eyed and luminous.
Gabrielle was quietly cataloging the amenities, her expression a mix of disbelief and delight as she gestured to the toiletry kit, pajamas, slippers, comforter, and memory-foam pillow.
“You said we were flying first class,” she said, trying for nonchalance and falling short. “You didn’t say it’d be like this.”
I chuckled as I settled into the soft, indulgent leather. “If we have to fly, darling, we may as well be comfortable.”
Gabrielle shook her head with a soft laugh. “You really don’t like planes, do you?”
“No, not particularly.”
She leaned toward me. “Then why on earth did you let me take you flying when we first met?”
I sighed. “Because you asked.” I reached across the divider, took her hand, and pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist. “I may not have admitted it to myself at the time, but I was desperately trying to impress you.”
She blinked, caught off guard, but her hand softened in mine.
Another flight attendant, an impeccably polished brunette, leaned in to offer warm towels and flutes of sparkling white wine. Gabrielle accepted both with a giddy grin she couldn’t suppress.
She swirled the wine, watching the bubbles rise. “Bubbles before takeoff…like bubbles before dinner. See? I pay attention.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “To what?”
She raised her glass to me. “To you. That first dinner date in Dallas.” She took a sip. “And Isabel. And Google. I took copious notes on everything—what to wear, when to wear it, which fork means what…” She trailed off with a quiet sigh. “I just want to do everything right.”
I shook my head. “You’re worrying too much.”
“I don’t think I’m worrying enough,” she countered. “I don’t even know what to call your parents. Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne?”
I hesitated, then took a drink.
She looked at me, eyebrows raised. “Not that?”
I cleared my throat, eyes on my glass. “Actually…my father is titled.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means that while Hawthorne is our surname, my father is the Baron Branleigh. So, my parents are Lord and Lady Branleigh.”
“Baron?” Her voice lifted in disbelief. “Like, actually noble?” She blinked. “Not just posh and judgy?”
I nodded.
“Were you planning to tell me, or did you just forget to mention it?”
“I didn’t forget,” I said. “I just…didn’t think it mattered. Or rather—I didn’t want it to.”
“So…are you in line for something?”
“Oh, heavens no. That dubious honor falls to my dear brother, James. Better him than me.”
“I’m sensing some tension…”
“Just a bit. But that’s a story for another day.”
She studied me for a moment, lips pressed together. “So what does that make you, exactly? Do I have to call you anything special?”
I leaned across the divider and nipped her ear. “You can call me anything you like.”
She swatted me. “I’m serious. I don’t want to mess anything up.”
“Just Cal.”
“What’s that short for? I’ve been meaning to ask…”
I blew out a quick breath. “Callum.” I rolled my eyes. “My great-grandfather’s name. Ghastly, I know.”
“No… Just not what I expected.”
“What did you think it was?”
“No idea. I panicked and told my aunt it was Calvin.”
I laughed. “Calvin?”
She shrugged. “What? I panicked.”
The flight attendant returned to collect the towels and glasses before takeoff.
“So…just Cal. Not ‘Lord’ or ‘Sir’ or—”
“Just Cal. I technically have a courtesy title, but that only shows up on formal correspondence and place cards.”
“And that would be…”
“Technically?” I sighed. “The Honourable Callum Hawthorne.”
Gabrielle snorted.
“Yes, go on, get it out of your system.”
“Sorry,” she said, still grinning. “It’s just…”
I rolled my eyes again. “It’s absurd, I know.”
The overhead chime sounded, followed by the familiar cadence of a flight attendant’s voice. “The boarding door is now closed. Please ensure all carry-on items are stowed, and your devices are in airplane mode…”
Soft thuds echoed down the aisle as the overhead compartments clicked shut. The engine hummed beneath us, and my pulse jumped. I tightened my seatbelt—like it would help—then turned back to Gabrielle.
“The only titles I’ve ever cared about,” I said, “I earned myself.”
She reached across the divider and brushed her fingers against mine. “Massive respect.” Leaning in close with a wicked gleam, she added, “And I do love that look you get when I call you ‘Professor.’”
The car hummed beneath us, the soft thrum of tires on damp country roads muffled by layers of luxury insulation.
The countryside blurred past in a wash of green hedgerows, moss-covered stone walls, and distant oaks dappled with muted mid-morning sun.
The sun had actually come out for my homecoming—miracles did happen.
Or perhaps the universe just had a twisted sense of humor.
Gabrielle slept against my shoulder, her breath slow and even. One hand curled in her lap and the other rested against my chest, a featherlight warmth through my jacket. I cradled her, fingertips grazing the ends of her hair where they spilled over her shoulder.
She trusted me. Entirely. Without hesitation.
God help us both.
I let my thumb drift over the crown of her head, slow and careful, as if I could hold on to this quiet moment a little longer.
She’d fallen asleep less than half an hour into the drive, lulled by jet lag, the softness of the seat, and the way I’d pulled her close when she leaned into me.
She hadn’t even fought it. Just exhaled and let go.
I envied her that.
The driver—someone new and unfamiliar—had offered a clipped “Welcome home, sir” at the airport and then had fallen into blessed silence. I hadn’t asked his name. He hadn’t offered it. Small mercies.
We were a mile out, maybe less. I knew this road—the gentle bend through the woodland, the slow rise before the estate walls came into view. I’d walked it. Driven it. Sprinted down it as a boy, trying to outrun the weight of everything that lurked behind those gates.
Now I was bringing her into it. The legacy. The expectations. The precision-polished facade of a family that had never once accepted anything they couldn’t control.
I’d spent years carving out a different life—measured, ordinary, my name just ink on a syllabus in a town where my father’s name didn’t reach. No titles. No press. No obligations dressed up as tradition. And now I was undoing all of it, one mile at a time.
I’d told myself this was necessary. That she deserved to see it, to know what she was stepping into. But part of me knew better. Part of me had known, the moment she pressed her palm to my chest and said she wasn’t afraid, that it was already too late to protect her.
They would be civil, of course. That was the danger. Civility could cut sharper than cruelty—and in that house, it always did.
And somewhere in the marrow of it all—still—was Claire. Not her presence, exactly. Just the echo of her absence. The way her name was never spoken, the ending of her story rewritten before her body was cold. Not to protect me. To protect themselves.
I could never unsee that. And I could never unring the silence.
And still—here was Gabrielle. My love. Tucked against me like I was safe.
I let my eyes close. Just for a breath.
Then I turned my head, speaking low beside her ear. “Gabrielle.” I gently brushed her arm. “We’re nearly there.”