Chapter 18 Hastings
Hastings
I'd been staring at the same paragraph in the merger document for twenty minutes.
The words blurred together on the page. It could have been written in Latin for all the sense they made to me because my mind was thirty thousand feet below us, in a Kensington townhouse with an omega who was going into heat.
Our omega.
I closed the laptop with more force than necessary.
Fritz shot up from his seat like he'd been electrocuted. He'd been pacing for the past hour, wearing a track in the carpet between the galley and the cockpit, and finally after much persuasion and a little annoyance I managed to get him to sit.
"Did they give us clearance?" he demanded.
"I closed my laptop, Fritz. We didn't receive divine intervention."
"You should call them again."
"The pilot called them ten minutes ago."
"You call them."
I dragged a hand down my face, feeling every one of my thirty-five years. "They're doing everything they can."
"It's not enough." Fritz stopped in front of me, his jaw tight. "She's going into heat, Henry. In our house. With only Etienne."
"I'm aware."
"Are you? Because you're sitting there reading merger documents like we're not in the middle of a crisis. Why the hell did we decide New York was a good idea when she was so close to her heat?"
“We still have a business to run.”
“Fuck the business and stop reading.”
"I'm not reading. I'm trying not to imagine every possible worst-case scenario." I stood, my shoulders tight with tension I couldn't shake. "Pacing won't get us there any faster."
"Neither will sitting."
He had a point.
Leanne appeared from the galley, her professional smile firmly in place despite having dealt with Fritz's demands for the past hour.
"Mr. Hastings, we've been cleared for immediate return to London. We're turning around now."
Relief hit me so hard I had to grip the back of my seat.
"Thank you, Leanne."
She nodded and disappeared back toward the cockpit.
Fritz dropped into his seat, his head falling back. "Finally."
I pulled out my phone and dialed Etienne.
He answered on the second ring. His face filled the screen, hair mussed, eyes bright.
"Henry."
"How is she?"
"She's fine. Her heat subsided for now."
"Is she eating?"
Etienne's eyebrows rose. "Yes, Dad."
"Don't." My jaw tightened. "She needs her energy. Make sure she eats."
"I'm literally making her food right now."
Movement in the background caught my eye. Presley walked into frame, and everything in me went still.
She wore Etienne's shirt. This time it was his green rugby shirt. It was hanging off one shoulder, the hem hitting mid-thigh.
My jaw clenched so hard I heard my teeth grind.
"Didn’t I give you an unlimited budget to buy you anything you needed?" The words came out sharper than I intended.
Presley's face went bright red. She looked at the camera, then away, her fingers twisting in the hem of the shirt.
"I like Etienne's shirts," she admitted quietly.
"Why his?" Fritz leaned into frame beside me. "Why not mine? I have excellent shirts."
Her embarrassment deepened, her cheeks now the color of roses. "Because Etienne likes me for me."
The words hit like a punch to the gut.
“And after this I think we could be friends forever.”
Friends.
Before I could respond, Etienne moved into frame. He grabbed Presley by the waist and pulled her onto his lap with easy familiarity. She squeaked, her hands flying to his shoulders for balance.
"I have to feed you," he said, his French accent thicker than usual. He picked up a strawberry from the plate on the counter and held it to her lips.
She smiled, that unguarded, genuine smile I'd seen in the security footage, and bit into the strawberry.
My jaw ticked.
"Presley," I said, my voice rougher than intended. "Look at me."
Her eyes found mine through the screen. Blue and wide and completely unguarded.
Her chest rose and fell, faster now. I watched her pulse jump in her throat.
The air between us, despite the screen, and an ocean separating us, felt charged.
"You know we like you," I said carefully. "All of us."
"For now," she whispered.
"Don't."
Fritz shifted beside me, his attention fixed on the screen.
Etienne's hand settled on Presley's hip, possessive and protective.
“I need to pee.” She wriggled off his lap.
Etienne watched her leave before turning to the screen. "She's ours, Henry. You know it. I know it." His smile turned smug. "And after today, I think she knows it too."
I frowned. "What does that mean?"
"It means I knotted her." Etienne's grin was absolutely shameless. "For her first time. And it was perfect."
The plane cabin went very, very quiet.
Fritz recovered first. He leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, that insufferable grin spreading across his face. "Well, well. Someone's been busy."
"Fritz," I warned.
"What? I'm not jealous. Much."
Minutes later, Presley, came back on the screen.
"How did our Frenchman treat you last night. Did he take good care of you?" Fritz asked.
"Oh my God," Presley's voice was muffled. "Can we not talk about this?"
"We absolutely can talk about this," Fritz said. "I need details. Was he gentle? Thorough? Did he—"
"Fritz.” My temperature was hitting boiling point. I was about to explode.
He held up his hands in surrender, but he was still grinning.
I forced my attention back to Presley. She was back sitting on Etienne's lap, her face still flushed, but there was something else in her eyes now. Vulnerability. Uncertainty.
"How are you feeling?" I asked.
"Fine!" Her voice pitched too high. "Great! Everything's good!"
Etienne's hand moved in slow circles on her hip. His eyes, though, were assessing. "I think her heat might slow now she's been knotted. Sometimes that happens."
"Sometimes," I agreed. But not always. And if it didn't slow, if it accelerated instead—
I pushed the thought away.
"Leave her alone now, Etienne," I said. "Don't wear her out."
"We're just cooking," Etienne protested. "See? Food." He gestured at the kitchen behind them, at the pots on the stove and the vegetables on the cutting board. "Very innocent."
"With you, nothing is innocent."
"Fair point."
Presley shifted on his lap, and I watched her wince slightly. Etienne noticed too. His hand tightened on her hip, steadying her.
Something in my chest tightened.
"Presley," I said, waiting until she looked at me again. "If your heat kicks in before we get back, remember something for me."
"What?"
"You're not just a vessel. You're not just an arrangement." The words felt strange, but I forced them out anyway. "You're ours. And we take care of what's ours. All of us. That means Etienne will look after you until Fritz and I get home. And then we all will. Together."
Her eyes widened. Her lips parted like she wanted to say something, but no sound came out.
I'd surprised her. Hell, I'd surprised myself.
Fritz's hand landed on my shoulder, a silent acknowledgment that he agreed.
"We'll be home soon," I added, gentler now. "Just hold on a little longer."
She nodded, her throat working.
I disconnected the call before I could say something else I wasn't ready to say.
The screen went dark.
I sat there, staring at my reflection in the black mirror of my phone, and tried to remember when this had stopped being about a surrogate and started being about her.
Fritz dropped back into his seat beside me, his expression thoughtful.
"You like her," he said.
"She's our surrogate."
"You keep saying that. Like if you repeat it enough times, it'll become true."
"It is true."
"Is it?" He studied me with those too-knowing eyes. "Because from where I'm sitting, you just told her she's ours. Not our surrogate. Ours."
I said nothing.
What could I say? That he was wrong? That I hadn't meant it?
I'd meant every word.
Leanne appeared again, her tablet in hand. "Mr. Hastings, the pilot has been notified that we’ve been given an earlier landing slot."
"Heathrow?"
"Gatwick."
"Fuck." I stood, my hand already reaching for my phone. "Get the helicopter to Gatwick. Tell them to be ready the moment we land."
"Yes, sir."
She disappeared, and I started pacing the same path Fritz had worn into the carpet.
"Four hours," Fritz said, looking at his watch. "We'll be home in four hours."
"Four hours is too long."
"I know."
I thought about Presley in Etienne's arms, her face flushed, her heat building. I thought about the way she'd looked at me through the screen, like she wanted to believe what I'd told her but didn't quite dare.
I thought about her wearing Etienne's shirt because she thought he was the only one who liked her for who she was.
Like Fritz and I were some kind of cold, calculating businessmen who only saw her as a transaction.
Maybe we had been.
But that had changed. When, I couldn't say.
Maybe when we'd shown up at that falling-apart caravan with her leaking boots and her ridiculous charity shop cardigan.
Maybe when she'd joked about buying a cottage.
Maybe when she'd danced around our drawing room in Etienne's shirt, laughing with her friend, making our house feel like a home for the first time in six years.
It didn't matter when.
What mattered was that she was ours now.
And I'd be damned if I let her go through her heat thinking we didn't want her.
"Henry," Fritz said quietly.
"What?"
"We're going to make it. We'll get home in time."
"We better."
Because if we didn't, if something happened to her while we were stuck on this plane—
I couldn't finish the thought.
So I did what I always did when emotions threatened to overwhelm me.
I pulled out my phone and started making lists. Emergency protocols. Heat supplies - snacks, drinks, bathing products. All the things Etienne needed to have ready. I found numbers for two elite omega clinics in case something went wrong.
Fritz watched me with an expression that was equal parts amusement and understanding.
"You know making lists won't get us there faster," he said.
"No. But it makes me feel like I'm doing something useful."
"Fair enough."
He pulled out his own phone, and we spent the next three hours and forty-two minutes in tense silence, watching the minutes tick down, willing the plane to fly faster, and trying not to think about all the ways this could go wrong.
Trying not to think about the omega waiting for us at home.
Our omega.
Whether she knew it yet or not.