10. Ethan
CHAPTER TEN
Ethan
By the time the Zurich review is behind us, the rest of my afternoon has already been allocated elsewhere.
Sara is already moving us toward the next issue.
The gala.
It exists, nominally, to celebrate innovation, partnerships, and the usual collection of self-congratulatory phrases wealthy people use when they want to drink champagne beneath chandeliers and pretend that ambition is a communal virtue.
In practice, it's a market signal. An opportunity for investors to be seen backing the right companies, for competitors to assess what threatens them, and for the press to circle anything that could be momentum.
For Strong AeroTech, it matters.
That’s the only reason I tolerate it.
The event's a little under three months away, which in practical terms means it's already close enough to be irritating.
Sara has been preparing for it with the precision of someone planning a military campaign.
Jeffrey, by contrast, appears to believe the entire thing can still be held together with charm and a clean suit.
He’s wrong.
Sara taps the screen, and the current event plan expands across the wall.
“We need to finalize the sequence for the demo. Lakeview Terrace has confirmed final ballroom access for setup the day before. We’ll have the central stage, the side display zones, and the east terrace for the private investor reception.
Press access remains limited to the opening presentation and post-demo statement.
Security has approved our revised perimeter plan. ”
I skim the outline. “Attendance?”
“Higher than last year. We’ve had additional confirmations from Zurich, the Munich delegation, the Gulf charter group, and two federal transportation liaisons.”
That last one isn't unexpected, though it does make the evening even less appealing.
“Competitors?” I ask.
Jeffrey opens one of the folders. “Aerosynth is sending their usual group. Halden Aviation as well. There’s talk that Veyr might try to announce their own safety platform preview, but if they do, it’ll be more theater than substance.”
“It usually is,” I say.
Jeffrey smiles faintly. “Glad we agree.”
Sara slides a second set of notes toward me. “The larger issue is positioning. This year can’t just be another appearance. The AI stabilization system has to land properly.”
Land.
I ignore the phrasing.
Strong AeroTech’s new safety architecture is the most important deployment we’ve prepared in years. The predictive layer alone would be enough to draw attention. Combined with the fault detection logic, the adaptive response modeling, and the live correction sequence, it becomes harder to dismiss.
A step forward.
Which means the gala cannot be treated as a social obligation. It has to serve the product.
“The opening remarks stay short,” I say. “No vanity messaging or broad claims about transforming the future of aviation unless we can support every word under regulatory scrutiny.”
Sara nods once. “Agreed.”
Jeffrey leans back. “You do know these people expect at least some dramatic language, right? If we don’t sound like we’re changing the world, someone else will.”
“Let them,” I say. “We don’t need to sound visionary. We need to be correct.”
He lifts his coffee in vague acknowledgment of that.
Sara advances to the technical sequence. “We’re still planning a live demonstration model rather than a recorded simulation?”
“Yes.”
She studies me. “That increases the margin for visible failure.”
“It also removes any suggestion we’re hiding behind edited outputs.”
Jeffrey taps the table lightly. “He’s right. If the system works the way we know it works, live is stronger.”
I look at the current display notes. “No overproduction or theatrical countdowns. The system speaks for itself.”
Sara’s expression doesn’t change, but I can see the calculation already adjusting. She likes control and predictability. In that regard, we work well together. She builds the room; I decide what matters in it.
“We’ll need the visuals simplified,” she says. “The current sequence assumes a general audience. That room won’t be general. Half of them will know enough to follow the engineering. The other half will pretend they do.”
“Then build for the first group,” I reply. “The second will follow whatever everyone else applauds.”
Jeffrey laughs quietly. “Accurate.”
I continue scanning the guest list. Board members. Investors. Regulators. Partners. Legacy names in aviation who attend these events because public presence reassures markets that their age hasn't diminished their relevance.
Then, lower down the social layer. Spouses. Guests. Philanthropic figures. Press adjacent attendees who have no business near a systems demo but will somehow end up photographed against it anyway.
I set the list down.
Sara notices. “You’ll need to stay for the full evening this year. The private reception after the presentation matters.”
“I’m aware.”
“And the board expects—”
“I know what the board expects, Sara.”
She stops there, not because she’s intimidated but because she’s efficient enough to recognize when repetition no longer serves a purpose.
The truth is simpler than any of them will say aloud.
They expect me to perform enough of the role attached to my position that no one spends the evening asking whether Strong AeroTech’s leadership remains stable, invested, and intact.
I've attended every year since Megan died.
Alone.
And every year, the same silence follows me through the room. Along with the persistent belief that grief eventually becomes elegant if the suit is tailored well enough.
It doesn’t.
It becomes familiar, that’s all.
Jeffrey studies me across the table, his expression shifting slightly. He knows where my attention has gone. “We can keep your after-speech obligations tighter this year.”
Sara glances at him, then at me. “I can cut half the social introductions if needed.”
“No,” I say. “If I’m there, I’m there. We do it properly.”
Neither of them argues.
Sara moves to the layout plans, and the meeting returns to structure.
We work through the entry sequence, stage positions, lighting cues, investor flow, security, then the technical redundancies built into the demo. I make it clear that the backups aren't there to hide failure. They're there to preserve continuity while we identify exactly what went wrong.
By the time we’ve finished, almost an hour has passed.
Sara gathers her notes first. “I’ll revise the event sequence and have the communications deck updated by tomorrow.”
“Cut anything that sounds rehearsed,” I say.
“It’s a gala,” Jeffrey says. “Rehearsed is the point.”
“Not for me.”
Jeffrey smirks. “Yes, we’re all painfully aware of your personality.”
Sara ignores him. “You’re still doing the investor dinner next week?”
“Yes.”
“And the magazine interview?”
“No.”
She looks up from her tablet. “You already postponed it once.”
“Then they can wait again.”
“They won’t like that.”
“They rarely do.”
Jeffrey stands, gathering his folder. “You know, one day you could simply lean into being the mysterious billionaire CEO and let everyone project competence onto you without effort.”
“I already have competence,” I say. “Projection would be redundant.”
“That’s almost charming.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
He grins. “That’s usually when it happens.”
I let them leave before I return to the windows.
The city looks colder today.
Not in weather, exactly. In tone. The light over the river is pale and clean, flattening the movement below into something almost abstract.
Three months.
Enough time to perfect the demo. Enough time for the board to continue pretending the gala is as much about optics as substance. Enough time for me to tolerate hearing Megan’s name in my own head every time someone at the event asks whether I’m bringing anyone.
Not that anyone asks directly anymore.
That, in its own way, is worse.
By the time I leave the office, the city has shifted toward evening.
The tower lobby is warmer after sunset, the suspended installation catching the artificial light in fractured gold instead of silver. The car is already waiting. I give the driver my address, then lean back and close my eyes for exactly twelve seconds before my phone vibrates again.
Sara.
Naturally.
I answer. “What now?”
“One more thing,” she says. “The board chair wants to know whether you intend to invite a guest this year.”
I go still.
There's a beat of silence long enough to acquire meaning.
Then: “No.”
“Understood,” she replies, and for once, there’s no steel in her voice. “I’ll remove the secondary placement from the table plan.”
“Do that.”
She ends the call.
I slide the phone back into my pocket and look out the window instead.
Traffic crawls along the avenue. Headlights streak across wet pavement. Somewhere beyond the buildings, the lake's a dark mass under a darkening sky. Chicago in the evening is all momentum and reflection.
I used to come home late and still expect light in the kitchen.
Conversation.
Megan standing barefoot on the wood floor with some absurdly optimistic dinner half-finished because she’d started telling me about her day and forgotten the stove.
Now I come home to routine.
Which isn't the same thing as emptiness, though at times it has been close enough to pass for it.
Tonight, for reasons I don't care to inspect too closely, I’m aware of something else under the surface of that thought.
Addy is there.
Oliver will be there.
Captain, inevitably, will be wherever the most attention is.
The apartment won’t be still.
That should be irrelevant.
It isn’t.
I know I’m home before I step fully into the apartment because Oliver is laughing.
It’s not a small sound. Not the contained, thoughtful amusement he often gives when something surprises him. It’s open, bright, unchecked.
I close the door behind me and stand still for half a second, listening.
The laughter is coming from the hallway near his room. Addy’s voice follows, lower, warm with mock severity.