Chapter 3 #2
The lobby’s empty except for that same useless clerk. His eyes widen at my approach. He looks away. Smart man.
Cold air hits my face as I burst through the doors. Snow falls in thick flakes, coating my suit. I don’t feel it. My phone’s already in my hand, thumb scrolling through contacts. The screen blurs. From snowflakes. Just snowflakes.
My car sits alone in the parking lot, a black sentinel in a sea of white. The handle’s frozen. Of course it is. Everything in this godforsaken place conspires against me.
Inside, the leather seats crack from cold. I grip the steering wheel. Names blur as I scroll through my contacts. Who do I even call? Mother? She’ll be devastated—she already had the wedding planner on speed dial. Father? He’ll see it as a business liability first, son’s broken heart second.
My reflection catches in the rearview mirror. Hair disheveled, tie crooked. I fix both. Control what you can control.
Snow piles higher on the windshield, creating a white curtain between me and that hotel. Good. Let it bury this whole night.
I need out. Need gone. Need to be anywhere but here, watching snow bury my perfectly planned future while Rebecca probably perfects her sob story upstairs.
My phone buzzes. Mother’s face lights up the screen. Of course. Her timing’s always been impeccable.
I let it ring.
My fingers shake as I punch in the number for our private aviation service. Snow keeps falling, coating everything in deceptive peace while my world burns. The heat’s on full blast, but I can’t stop shivering.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Lockhart.” Janet’s voice carries that careful tone reserved for delivering bad news to important clients. “Your father has the jet until the 26th. They’re already airborne for Aspen.”
Of course. The annual Lockhart Christmas retreat.
“There has to be another option.” My voice sounds strange, like it’s coming from far away. “Charter something. Anything.”
“Sir, it’s almost Christmas Eve, and it’s Alaska. Everything’s grounded or booked.” She pauses. “The weather’s getting worse, too. They’re talking about closing the airport soon.”
The steering wheel creaks under my grip. Father always says a Lockhart doesn’t show weakness. Doesn’t lose control. But my carefully ordered world keeps crumbling, one piece at a time.
“Find me something.” Ice coats each word. “I don’t care what it costs. I need out of here. Now.”
“Mr. Lockhart, I—”
“Just. Do. It.”
The line goes silent except for rapid typing. I watch snow build up on my windshield, each flake another barrier trapping me here. In this backward town. With her.
“I’m sorry, Sir.” Janet’s voice is barely a whisper. “Everything’s grounded until morning at least. The storm—”
I end the call. The phone hits the dashboard with a crack. Perfect. Another thing broken tonight.
My fingers tremble as I dial another number. And another. Each rejection hits harder than the last.
“I’ll pay more.” My voice echoes in the frozen car. “Whatever your highest rate is, I’ll double it.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Lockhart. The weather—”
I end the call before they finish. Another dead end. The phone’s screen mocks me with its list of crossed-out options. First-class seats on commercial flights: booked solid. Private charters: grounded by the storm.
Money’s not working.
Money always works. That’s the first lesson Father taught me—everything has a price. But here I sit, in a frozen parking lot in Nowhere, Alaska, and my billions might as well be monopoly money.
“Name your price,” I tell the fifth charter service. “Whatever it takes.”
“Sir, you don’t understand. It’s not about money. The airport’s closing. The storm—”
I hang up. Again. The dashboard creaks under my fist. This isn’t happening. I’m Sebastian fucking Lockhart. I don’t get trapped. I don’t get stuck. I make things happen.
But the snow keeps falling, building walls around my car, around this town, around my perfectly planned life turned into a nightmare. Each flake is another reminder that some things can’t be bought, controlled, or managed into submission.
My phone buzzes. Mother again. Her third attempt.
Mother
Darling, how did she react? Tell me everything!
The leather steering wheel groans in my grip. How did she react? By being exactly who she always was—a perfect actress playing her part. And I, the fool who wrote her blank checks for the performance.
The snow’s getting thicker, but I can’t stay here watching it bury my car—and my dignity—any longer. The airport’s my last shot at escape. Everyone has a price. That’s what Father taught me, and he’s never been wrong.
The wipers barely keep up with the snow, each sweep revealing another blank white wall. Perfect metaphor for this night—the harder I push, the more resistance I meet.
My phone lights up. Rebecca again. I silence it without looking. The roads stretch empty ahead, street lights casting yellow halos in the snow. At least I won’t have to deal with traffic.
The small airport looms ahead through the snow. My rented Bentley’s tires slip on the fresh powder as I pull into the parking lot.
My phone buzzes again.
Rebecca. Delete. Another. Delete. Each notification feels like a fresh slap.
The terminal’s nearly empty now, Christmas music still playing through tinny speakers. That same awful baggage carousel where that green-eyed woman mocked me earlier. At least she’s gone. I can’t handle any more reminders of this night’s humiliations.
Pride keeps my spine straight as I approach the ticket counter. A Lockhart doesn’t slouch. Doesn’t show weakness. Even when their perfectly constructed world crumbles around them.
“I need the next flight out. Anywhere.” The words taste like defeat, but I force them out. “Money is no object.”
The clerk’s expression tells me everything before she speaks. “I’m sorry, Sir. The airport’s closing in fifty minutes due to weather conditions. All flights are booked—”
“Unacceptable.” The word cracks like a whip. “There has to be something leaving. Private flights? Cargo planes? Anything?”
My phone buzzes again.
Mother
Darling, should we announce the engagement tonight or wait for Christmas morning?
The screen almost cracks under my thumb as I silence it.
Anger’s good. Anger keeps me standing. Keeps me searching for solutions instead of drowning in the humiliation of being played so perfectly.
The clerk’s still talking, something about weather patterns and safety regulations. I tune her out, scanning the terminal for any signs of movement. Any hint of escape.
The departure board blinks red. Cancelled. Cancelled. Delayed. Cancelled.
But there’s movement near the cargo area. Pilots in heavy jackets hurry past, checking manifests. Where there’s cargo, there’s someone willing to bend rules for the right price.
The cargo board’s display wavers. But one listing grabs my attention.
Crosswind Logistics, set to leave in forty minutes.
I hunt down their contact information and hit the call button.
“I’ll take anything. Cargo hold, cockpit floor, strapped to the wing—just tell me the price.” The desperation in my voice would horrify Father, but my pride evaporated somewhere between catching my girlfriend with another man and watching my meticulously planned proposal fall apart.
“Sir, this isn’t a passenger flight. There’s no—”
“Twenty thousand. Cash transfer, right now.”
He pauses. “The pilot won’t—”
“Thirty.” The figure feels insignificant compared to the crushing weight of staying here another minute. “Final offer.”
His resistance cracks. One phone call later, I’m booked on a cargo flight to Chicago. The ultimate walk of shame—a Lockhart flying coach would be bad enough, but cargo? The family name might never recover. Thank God no one will ever find out.
But here’s the thing—all I feel is...relief. Not heartbreak. Not devastation. Just relief.
Actually, no. That's not all. There's anger too. At Rebecca, sure. At her lover, abstractly. But mostly at myself.
I spent months planning the perfect proposal, down to the last rose petal. And I missed all the signs.
The late-night “research calls,” the sudden trips, the way she always kept her phone face down.
But what really twists the knife? I’m more upset about my ruined plans than my ruined relationship.
What kind of person does that make me? What kind of relationship did we really have, if I care more about a failed execution than a failed connection?