Mile High Secret Baby (Forbidden Silver Foxes #9)

Chapter 1

BELLA

Murphy’s law loves airports.

If something can go wrong, it’ll happen right when you’ve got a three-year-old with a fever and three pieces of mismatched luggage.

The flight monitor at Charles de Gaulle blinks CANCELLED in an almost cheerful font, as if mocking me. Around me, passengers groan, announcements blur in rapid-fire French, and Lily’s head grows heavier against my shoulder.

“Oh, sweetheart…” I press a kiss to Lily’s hair. She’s flushed, curls sticking to her forehead, tiny hands clutching my blouse. “We’ll get home soon, I promise.”

The plan was simple: finish the six-month design contract in Madrid, hop through Paris for a connection, land in New York before dinner. But apparently, the universe decided we needed an unscheduled adventure.

“Madam, you can collect a voucher for the airport hotel,” an airline rep says kindly.

I manage a tired smile. “Thank you, I just need to grab some medicine first.”

As the woman walks away, I sink onto a bench, shifting Lily into her stroller so she can rest more comfortably.

My laptop bag bumps against my knee—inside it, my entire life from Spain: design sketches, client files, and way too many memories of late-night tapas and ocean views.

I should be feeling accomplished. Instead, I’m calculating how to entertain a feverish preschooler in an airport terminal for twelve hours.

Lily stirs. “Mommy…my throat hurts.”

“I know, baby.” I stroke her cheek. “We’ll find some soup and something magic to make it better, okay?”

She nods sleepily, trusting me completely—dangerous, wonderful trust that fills my chest until it aches.

A group of tourists bursts into laughter nearby, and for a moment I let myself smile. It’s been a good year, all things considered. Hard work, sunshine, a sense of independence I hadn’t felt in forever. Now it’s time to go home, see family, maybe—if I’m brave—start dating again.

The thought makes me laugh under my breath. Yeah, right.

I stand, adjusting Lily’s blanket and scanning for the nearest pharmacy sign. The air smells like espresso and rain, the terminal lights soft against the glass walls. Everything feels suspended, like the quiet before something shifts.

But tonight, the only thing I want to shift is the temperature on Lily’s thermometer.

Still, as I start toward the pharmacy, I can’t shake the faint hum of anticipation. Maybe it’s the city, maybe the exhaustion. But I feel like something is about to happen.

I juggle my tote, Lily’s stroller, and a box of children’s paracetamol while the pharmacist cheerfully switches between French and English.

“Fever?” she asks.

I nod. “High, but manageable. Just…bad timing.”

She smiles in that universal way of people who’ve seen it all. “Always is.”

A few minutes later, I’m back in the terminal, receipt fluttering in one hand, the small paper bag crinkling in the other.

The crowd has thinned out a little, a soft lull before the next wave of arrivals.

Lily’s finally dozing in her stroller, cheeks pink but peaceful, and for the first time in hours, I let myself breathe.

Then I turn—and collide straight into someone.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry—” The words tumble out as my hand shoots forward to steady the medicine bag. His arm brushes mine, solid and unyielding, and for the briefest second, a hand touches my waist—gentle, just enough to keep me from falling.

“It’s alright.” His voice is low, deep, calm, threaded with something I can’t quite name.

I look up, but before I can register his face—before I can even process the warmth of that touch—a shrill siren cuts through the air. Somewhere down the concourse, an alarm blares, lights flashing. Everyone’s heads turn at once, a ripple of confusion spreading through the terminal.

Instinctively, I glance back toward Lily’s stroller. She’s still asleep. Relief washes through me—then I realize the man I bumped into is gone.

Vanished.

I turn in a slow circle, scanning the nearby gates, the café, even the reflection in the glass wall. Nothing. Just travelers and airport staff moving like normal, as if that one brief touch hadn’t happened.

Weird.

I shake my head, forcing a laugh at my own paranoia. Probably just another passenger in a hurry, and I’m overtired. Still…my skin tingles where his fingers brushed my waist—like an echo I can’t explain.

I tuck the medicine bag under my arm and head back to the seating area.

Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, or maybe I’ve spent too many nights watching crime shows in hotel rooms—but for a heartbeat, I could’ve sworn that voice sounded familiar.

By the time I make it back to our little corner, the siren’s gone quiet, and the crowd’s settled into that restless airport rhythm again—rolling suitcases, boarding calls, the occasional toddler meltdown that makes me silently grateful Lily’s asleep.

She stirs as I drape the blanket over her. “You’re okay, sweetheart,” I whisper, smoothing her curls. “Just a few more hours.”

A few hours until what, though? The next flight isn’t till morning. With a sigh, I grab my passport and stand, weaving my way toward the airline counter to at least get the hotel voucher sorted. My feet ache, my head’s throbbing, and all I want is a bed and a dark room.

The woman behind the desk looks up with a tired but polite smile. “Bonjour, madame. How may I help you?”

“Hi,” I start, forcing my best polite-traveler voice. “My flight to New York was cancelled. I just need to rebook and get the voucher they mentioned.”

She types something quickly, nails clicking against the keyboard. Then she pauses, frowning slightly at the screen. “You are…Ms. Isabella Thomas, correct?”

“Correct,” I say, trying not to sound anxious.

Her expression shifts, and she smiles again—this time brighter. “You are very lucky, madame. There were some changes. You have been automatically rebooked on the next flight—it leaves in three hours.”

I blink. “Three hours? Tonight?”

“Yes. Air France 238. Direct to New York.”

For a second, I just stare at her. Relief and confusion battle inside me. “That’s…that’s great. But I thought all flights were full?”

She shrugs. “Someone cancelled last minute. Two seats together. Very good luck.”

Lucky. Right.

I sign where she tells me, still half-dazed, and take the new boarding passes. As I’m turning away, the thought flickers through my head—that hand on my waist, that low voice—and something about the timing makes me pause.

I shake it off. Coincidences happen every day. People cancel flights. The universe doesn’t conspire over seat assignments.

Still, as I push Lily’s stroller toward the gate area, my fingers tighten around the paper.

Three hours.

Enough time to breathe. Not enough to stop wondering why my pulse hasn’t quite settled yet.

By the time they call for boarding, I’m running purely on caffeine and willpower. I can’t even remember how many lattes I’ve had since Madrid—three? Five? Who knows.

As we board the plane, Lily is whining softly in my arms, her cheeks still flushed but no longer fever-hot. Her little head rests on my shoulder, curls sticking up like she’s been electrocuted. I whisper, “We’re almost there, peanut,” even though my arms feel like they might detach from my body.

The line moves forward, a slow shuffle of tired travelers and crumpled boarding passes. I scan mine again—Seat 2A—and, in my caffeine-fogged brain, interpret that as “second row somewhere near the back.”

“Welcome aboard, Ms. Thomas,” the flight attendant greets me, all polished poise and perfect lipstick. “Your seat is to the left.”

“Left,” I repeat obediently, stepping into the plane and turning right.

It takes me a full thirty seconds—and three apologetic “Sorry, excuse me, sorry again!”—before another flight attendant gently intercepts me halfway down the economy aisle.

“Madam,” she says, smiling kindly, “you’re in the wrong section. Your seat is in first class.”

I blink at her, completely blank. “I’m sorry, what?”

“First class,” she repeats, with that serene patience only flight attendants and kindergarten teachers possess. “Let me show you.”

I look down at Lily, who’s now half-awake and eyeing the situation suspiciously. “Big seats?” she mumbles.

“Apparently very big seats,” I mutter, following the attendant back toward the front of the plane.

And wow.

The first-class cabin feels like another world. It’s quiet, softly lit, all muted champagne and dove-gray tones. Each seat is tucked inside its own little suite—sleek walls, sliding doors, a touch-screen control panel that looks more complicated than my laptop.

My assigned suite—2A—is gorgeous. A wide leather seat that reclines into a bed, a quilted blanket folded neatly on top, a plump pillow that looks like it belongs in a hotel. There’s a glass partition for privacy, a rose-gold reading lamp, even a little storage nook with bottled water and slippers.

Lily’s eyes go huge. “We can lie down?”

“We can,” I say, still half in disbelief. “But we’re not touching any buttons, okay? Mommy’s barely functional right now.”

She giggles and climbs up onto the seat like she’s boarding a spaceship.

The attendant helps me fold up Lily’s stroller and pack our bags away into the overhead compartment. I tuck my daughter in with the blanket and hand her a tiny bottle of water, then drop into the seat beside her.

Oh, it’s heaven. Pure, plush heaven. The kind of comfort that makes you forget flight delays and crying toddlers and every bad decision you’ve ever made involving airport coffee.

I close my eyes for a second, letting the hum of the air-conditioning wrap around me. The scent here is different—fresh linen and a faint trace of citrus. Calm. Expensive.

Finally, I think. A break.

And then a shadow falls across the suite’s doorway.

Someone steps in beside me, the movement smooth, unhurried. The air seems to shift, heavier somehow, as a deep, familiar scent cuts through the sterile calm—amber, cedarwood, something clean and distinctly male.

My eyes open.

He’s handing his jacket to the attendant, thanking her in a low, polite voice that tugs at something buried deep in memory. Broad shoulders. A tailored dark suit. Hair just slightly longer than I remember, with just slightly more silver in it than I remember, catching the cabin light.

And when he turns, when his gaze meets mine across the narrow aisle—

My breath catches.

It’s Aleksander.