Chapter 51
HOLLY
Isettle into my window seat. It’s my first time in first class, and it’s hard not to be impressed.
The chair reclines almost fully, the cushions are thick and comfortable, and—miracle of miracles—I’m not wedged between strangers.
A warm cloth is pressed into my hand before I’ve even buckled in, followed by an eye mask, earplugs, and socks.
I have space to breathe, to move, to escape to the bathroom without climbing over people while mumbling an apology.
Usually it’s a toss-up. Do you serve them ass or boobs on your way past?
Either way, someone’s losing. This time, I get to skip making that choice entirely.
The plane finishes boarding quickly. My stomach tightens as we taxi. When we lift off, I watch New York disappear beneath a wash of cloud and light.
A flight attendant stops beside me, tall, in his sixties, cheeky smile.
“Good morning, madam,” he says in a British accent. “Welcome aboard. Congratulations on choosing us over the one with the smug advert campaign. What can I get you? Cheddar omelet or French toast?”
I almost laugh. It’s the kind of welcome I don’t usually expect from cabin crew, but maybe I just got the fun one. At the mention of eggs, though, my stomach turns.
“Skip the eggs. I’m pregnant,” I brag, “and my morning sickness is bad today. Crackers and a blanket would be perfect.”
His face lights up. “An excellent choice. How far along, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Just hit the second trimester.”
“Lovely. Early yet. Give it a few weeks and random shoppers in supermarkets will be rubbing your belly and predicting twins. Sit tight. I’ll sort you out.”
And he does. Before I can blink, I’m wrapped in the softest blanket and have an endless supply of crackers, cool towels, and ginger ale.
Oh, and extra pillows! Once I’ve managed a few bites and the tension in my stomach lets up, I recline my seat and close my eyes.
The cabin is dim, and wonderful still. Peaceful. I should sleep.
But I don’t.
Instead, my mind circles back to last night. To Dexter.
Dexter will be fine. He’s busy. He has work, his life, his rhythm. And I know him well enough to know he’ll land on his feet. He’ll move on. That’s who he is—charming, successful, never short of options.
And so will I.
I’m moving toward something new. The kindergarten, the children, Shelby. That’s what matters now.
I dig around in my bag for some Burt’s Bees, pushing past mints and tissues. My fingers brush the contract Dexter gave me, still shoved in here from the night we signed it. I pull it out and flip through.
I skip the parts he already mentioned (health, money, the kid). I trust him there. That hasn’t changed. What I want to know is the other side. The what-if. If things got ugly.
The language is dry, but it’s clear.
Termination: This Agreement may be terminated at any time by Party A (H. Bishop) upon written notice to Party B (D. Thorne). All provisions regarding the child remain in force regardless.
Meaning, I can walk away whenever I want. The kid is still covered. Holy crap. You can’t just drop that like it’s nothing, Dexter. I flip the page.
Support in Event of Hardship: In the event of illness, incapacity, or financial hardship of Party A, Party B shall provide all necessary financial support to maintain the health, housing, and welfare of Party A, in addition to provisions outlined for the child.
I stop.
No.
Wait… what? If I can’t work, if I fall flat on my face, I’m covered too.
I flip back and read it from the beginning, word for word, the way Dexter is always telling me.
Under my breath, I mutter in a deep and bossy growl, “Rule number one in business: read the fucking fine print, Holly. Rule number two: never question the boss. Rule number three: don’t make that face at me. ”
I wait for the huff, the inevitable, “Don’t make me sound like a caveman.” Not a sound, of course. Just the hum of the plane. “That’s exactly what a caveman would say,” I still tell him, shaking my head at the contract.
No clauses about custody or visitation. Not one line about it, only safeguards.
And no sneaky traps either. Nothing about me calling him “boss” while bent over his desk, or signing away the rights to my orgasms, or being contractually obligated to work overtime on my knees.
(Which… yeah, definitely didn’t need a clause, considering.)
I sink back against the seat.
It almost hurts more.
Because that’s the part that gets me: When he isn’t trying to steer everything, when he isn’t pulling stunts like buying every kindergarten he can get his hands on in London, when he eases up—he’s exactly what I need.
I put my earbuds in and press play on Shelby’s parenting audiobook recommendation. “Would’ve saved me from calling Mum in tears at 3 a.m. Read it.” I settle in, ready to learn. At some point I drift off.
When I wake, the flight attendant returns, balancing a tray. “You’re in luck. I’ve purloined a dry croissant from business class. Very rebellious of me.”
I sit up and smile. “Respect.”
He leans in. “I live on the edge. Yesterday I gave someone in economy two sugars. Don’t tell anyone.”
I laugh. “I’ll take it to my grave.”
He walks off looking pleased, already scanning for his next crime.
Outside, the sky is pitch black, and the city lights below blur through the glass.
London. It looks exactly how I remember it.
The Thames snakes through the darkness, lit here and there by bridges.
Gahhh. Looking at London’s towers, spires and clusters of buildings, I get the same feeling, the rush of excitement followed by that familiar warmth pooling in my belly.
I’m almost there.