Chapter 2
Nate
When I first get on my seat, I can’t help but scan the cabin—old habits die hard.
The steward approaches with that practiced smile.
“Mr. Weister, sir. There’s a phone call for you.
” I feel my shoulders tense immediately.
Just one goddamn flight without interruption, is that too much to ask?
Work already consumes most of my life, and these rare moments of freedom are precious.
I travel to escape, to breathe, to remember I’m more than just a uniform and a set of orders.
But apparently Dad needs me, so coming home feels like another assignment rather than a choice.
Every time he snaps his fingers, I find myself responding like that obedient little boy I used to be.
It’s been this way for as long as I can remember, and at twenty-nine, I still wonder if I’ll ever break the pattern.
I’m not a child anymore, for fuck’s sake.
“I’ll take it in a few minutes,” I tell the steward, not bothering to hide the irritation in my voice.
He nods and retreats, probably used to dealing with grumpy passengers.
I stow my bag overhead, noticing how even this simple action follows the precise movements drilled into me through years of service.
Fold, tuck, secure. My life in three words.
As a kid, I was all boundless energy and wild impulses—always running, climbing, questioning everything.
My commanding officer now calls it ‘natural leadership’ and ‘healthy initiative.’ Dad called it ‘disruptive’ and ‘unseemly.’ I wasn’t allowed the luxury of being just a kid; I was the Duke’s son before I was ever Nate.
I needed to be calm, controlled, a perfect miniature gentleman at eight years old.
Never messy, never loud, never wrong. I still hear Dad’s voice in my quiet moments: “The Dukes of Weister have a millennium-long reputation and surely, it will be passed down. You must learn your place.” The memory makes my throat tight, my hands clenching involuntarily.
I understand his obsession on some level.
The press has always circled our family like vultures, waiting for any misstep to splash across the tabloids.
But understanding doesn’t ease the resentment that still burns inside me when I think about what I missed.
I wanted a normal childhood—skinned knees from falling off bikes, dirt under my fingernails from climbing trees, the simple joy of making mischief without it becoming a family crisis.
Those small freedoms that make childhood what it’s supposed to be.
My memories of those years feel more like formal photographs than lived experiences, and almost none include my parents’ faces.
The realization still comes down like a physical blow, my jaw clenching against emotions I was taught never to show.
I’ve spent too many sleepless nights wondering why they had me at all.
The conclusion I always reach is painfully simple: they needed an heir, a continuation of the bloodline, someone to inherit the title and estates.
Nothing more personal than that. Sometimes I felt like a ghost in my own home, moving through rooms where no one actually saw me.
That feeling of invisibility still haunts me— the sense of being hollowed out over time, until I’m nothing more than a name on the family tree.
Only two people made me feel real: Nanny Alice with her endless patience and homemade cookies and delicious cakes, and Izzy.
God, Izzy. The thought of her sends a familiar ache through my chest. Somehow she saw past everything—the title, the wealth, the carefully constructed facade—to the angry, lonely boy underneath.
Unlike everyone else in our world of privilege and pretense, Izzy never wanted anything from me except friendship.
She looked at the world with a clarity I envied, cutting through bullshit with a few well-chosen words while I was still learning to control my temper.
It’s been more than fifteen years since we really talked, since that summer when everything fell apart, but thinking about her still does something to me—quickens my pulse, makes me more aware of myself than I want to be.
I take a deep breath, the kind I use before difficult conversations with subordinates or when breaking bad news to families.
My hand raises to signal for whiskey—no ice, double—and I turn to the window, watching clouds pass beneath us.
There’s irony in how I was pushed from one rigid structure only to find myself into another.
The military gave me purpose, clarity, brotherhood—all things missing from the cold halls of Weister Manor.
The difference is that even though I haven’t chosen this life, I earned my place in it through sweat and blood rather than birth.
The whiskey arrives, and I drink it in one go, welcoming the burn that momentarily drowns out thoughts of home.
Whatever crisis has prompted this summons, I’ll deal with it the way I’ve learned to handle everything: head-on, with as much honesty as I can muster,, then I’ll get the hell out before the Duke remembers all the ways I’ve disappointed him.
Three days max, then back to the vacation I planned for myself.
At least, that’s the plan. Family has a way of dragging you back into old patterns, old wounds. And I’ve never been very good at walking away from a fight.
Finally taking back my seat after that pointless phone call with Dad’s secretary—not even Dad himself, of course—I try to relax into the uncomfortable airline chair, but something keeps me on edge.
The blonde next to me is the kind of distraction I’d normally welcome.
Her fingers dance across her laptop keyboard with practiced precision, and I find myself wondering if she’s actually working or just putting on a show.
Something about her seems vaguely familiar, though I can’t place it.
When her lips touch the rim of her wine glass, I’m transfixed.
Those full, pink lips press against the glass, leaving a faint imprint, and suddenly I’m imagining them pressed against me instead.
I shift in my seat, uncomfortable with how quickly my thoughts have turned.
She closes her eyes, clearly lost in whatever music is playing through her headphones, and I take the opportunity to really look at her.
She’s breathtaking—not in the manufactured way of the women who typically orbit my social circle, hunting for titles and bank accounts, but in a way that feels genuine.
When she unconsciously mouths the lyrics to whatever song she’s listening to, a small smile playing on her lips, something tightens in my chest. It’s adorable in a way I hadn’t expected to find appealing.
I force myself to settle back and close my eyes. It’ll be a very long flight to London, but maybe sleep will make the hours pass more quickly. And keep my mind off the distracting blonde.
A sudden flash of light jolts me from the beginnings of sleep—not the panicked awakening I sometimes experience when dreams of past missions intrude, but startling nonetheless. My reaction clearly frightens the woman beside me; her hand flies to her chest as if to physically calm her racing heart.
“I’m sorry if the light bothers you. I’ll turn it off,” she says, her voice carrying a hint of something I can’t quite place.
“Don’t worry. It was just a bad dream,” I lie, not willing to explain my hair-trigger reflexes.
Our eyes lock, and I find myself unable to look away.
Her eyes are a deep ocean blue—intelligent, expressive, somehow both challenging and vulnerable.
Her voice is sweet but with an underlying strength that catches me off guard.
It’s like being hypnotized. Damn, she’s gorgeous in a way that goes beyond simple physical attraction.
A warning voice cuts through my appreciation: She’s not for you.
The internal reminder is harsh but necessary.
Women like her—educated, refined, probably from a good family—they don’t end up with men carrying the kind of baggage I’ve accumulated.
I close my eyes again, trying to focus on the mission at hand: get to London, deal with whatever family emergency Dad’s cooked up, get back to my life.
After a while, a delicate perfume envelops me—floral but not overwhelming, with something underneath that’s distinctly feminine.
I open my eyes to find her standing directly in front of me, caught between my legs as she tries to edge past to the aisle.
Her eyes widen when she realizes I’m watching her, and I can’t help but grin as her cheeks flush a delicate pink.
Christ, that blush only makes her more appealing.
I could easily pull her onto my lap right now, taste those lips that have been teasing me since I sat down.
“I’m… I’m sorry,” she stammers, voice suddenly smaller. “I didn’t want to disturb you but I needed to get up for a walk.”
I smile, oddly charmed by her discomfort. “No need to apologize.”
“Okay…” she replies, her voice carrying that adorable timidity that makes something protective stir in me.
As she walks away toward the lavatory, I shamelessly watch her go.
Her jeans cling to curves that could launch a thousand fantasies, her ass perfectly shaped for a man’s hands.
I catch myself thinking things I haven’t allowed myself to consider in years—not since relationships became just another form of collateral damage in my life.
I notice she’s left her laptop open, and I can’t resist peeking at her playlist. It’s an eclectic mix—plenty of current pop songs I wouldn’t recognize if my life depended on it, and several classics like “All of Me” that I’ve always loved.
You’re full of surprises, little one, I think, immediately questioning where that possessive nickname came from.