Chapter 22 #2
“My dream?” I can’t help the disbelieving laugh that escapes me. “Mother, that was your dream. I don’t recall ever expressing a burning desire to get married at the country club.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you did.” She turns to Father, seeking backup. “Richard, tell him.”
Father clears his throat. “Your mother has put a great deal of effort into these arrangements, Sebastian.”
“Effort I didn’t ask for.”
“It’s done,” Mother insists, her voice rising. “The right venue, the right timing, the right family connections—these things don’t happen by accident. Do you think the Astors just stumbled into their social standing?”
I push the plate away, my appetite killed by the weight of expectations I never agreed to carry. “I don’t care what the Astors did. I’m not marrying Rebecca.”
“This is about that pilot, isn’t it?” Mother’s eyes narrow to blue slits. “I saw the way she looked at you at the hospital. She got these ideas into your head.”
Bailey’s face flashes in my mind. Her green eyes were bright with laughter as she named everything around us, her fierce determination as she threw her precious snow globe to save me, her warmth against me during those cold Alaskan nights.
The realization hits me with absolute certainty.
I love her.
Somehow, in those few desperate days, I fell in love with Bailey Monroe. Five days of raw, unfiltered honesty that made four years with Rebecca feel like a business arrangement I’d signed without reading the fine print.
“Leave her out of this.”
“So it is about her.” Mother looks triumphant, like she’s caught me in something shameful. “Sebastian, be sensible. You spent a few days in a cabin with some...some cargo pilot. It’s natural to develop confused feelings in a survival situation.”
“Bailey,” I say through gritted teeth. “Her name is Bailey.”
“Fine. Bailey.” Mother pronounces the name like it’s contaminated. “The point remains. She’s not your world, Sebastian. This—” she gestures around the dining room, “—this is your world. The company. The responsibilities. The right connections.”
“She’s hardly appropriate,” Mother continues, warming to her topic. “Did you see how she spoke? No filter whatsoever.”
“That’s what makes her real.”
“Real? Is that what you call it?” Father scoffs. “Real doesn’t build empires, Son. Real doesn’t maintain social standing.”
I look around at our perfect dining room—at the paintings chosen to impress visitors rather than move souls, at the furniture no one actually feels comfortable sitting on, at my parents who seem more concerned about what the Hendersons will think than whether their only son might be drowning in expectations.
“Maybe that’s the problem.” My voice drops lower. “Prioritizing social standing over what actually matters is the problem.”
“She said she collects snow globes,” Mother says, as if announcing a criminal record. “Tourist trinkets.”
And I’m done. The last thread of pretense snaps inside me.
“She collects joy.” My words come out raw, each one torn from somewhere deep and long-neglected. “Life. Everything we’ve forgotten how to feel in our perfect, empty world. She made me laugh until my sides hurt. Made me feel alive for the first time in years.”
My voice cracks again. I don’t care. I’m channeling Bailey’s courage, her fearlessness, her refusal to be anything but authentic.
“I love her.” The admission bursts from me, shocking us all. “I love Bailey Monroe.”
“Sebastian!” Mother gasps, clutching her heart like I’ve announced allegiance to a terrorist organization.
“Sebastian,” Father warns, his voice dropping to that register that once made me straighten my spine without conscious thought. “Think carefully about your next words.”
“I have.” The certainty flows through me like a current. “For the first time, I have.”
The silence that follows feels different from all the silences that have punctuated our family dinners over the years. This isn’t the pause before someone proposes a business strategy or suggests a more advantageous social connection. This is the silence of something breaking beyond repair.
I push my chair back from the table, the legs scraping against the hardwood floor. Mother winces at the sound.
“Do you know what Bailey did when we were attacked by wolves?” I look between them, not expecting an answer. “She threw her favorite snow globe. Her Las Vegas one. She said it was her lucky charm—never flew without it. And she threw it to save me.”
“How...resourceful,” Mother manages, clearly struggling to find something polite to say about the woman she sees as a threat to everything she’s built.
“No, Mother. It wasn’t resourceful. It was a sacrifice.
It was important to her. I was more.” I run my finger along the edge of the crystal water glass.
“When’s the last time anyone in this room sacrificed something they truly valued?
Not for appearances, not for business, not for social standing—just because someone else mattered more? ”
Father adjusts his cufflinks—platinum, monogrammed, a gift from some business partner whose name he probably can’t even remember. “Sebastian, this entire conversation is becoming melodramatic. We’re simply trying to guide you back to the path that makes sense.”
“The path that makes sense.” I taste the words like sampling a wine I’ve suddenly realized is vinegar.
“You mean the path where I marry a woman who cheated on me because it’s convenient for business?
Where I pretend to be happy in a relationship that’s as artificial as Mother’s flower arrangements? ”
Mother gasps again, pressing a hand to her chest. “The finest florist in Chicago does my arrangements.”
“Exactly my point. They’re perfect. They’re expensive. And they’re completely soulless.”
Father’s expression hardens. “That’s enough, Sebastian.”
“No, it’s not enough. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.
” I stand up, tossing my napkin onto the barely touched meal.
“For years, I’ve played by the rules. Perfect grades.
Perfect university. Perfect job at the family company.
Perfect relationship with the perfect society girlfriend.
And what did it get me? A woman who cheated, parents who plan my wedding without asking me, and a life so empty I didn’t even realize what was missing until—”
“Until some pilot with questionable social skills showed you the light?” Father’s voice drips with sarcasm.
“Yes.” The simplicity of it strikes me like a revelation. “Yes, that’s exactly what happened.”
I can almost hear Bailey’s voice in my ear. Now’s the dramatic exit part, Sebastian. Make it good. Knock over a chair for emphasis.
My chest heaves with emotions. I’m different now—broken open and somehow more whole than I’ve ever been.
“I love her.” The words feel like freedom. “I love every annoying, inappropriate, honest part of her. I love her snow globes and her stories and the way she calls me on my bullshit. I love how she doesn’t fit in our world because our world isn’t worth fitting into.”
Mother sinks back into her chair, ashen-faced. Father stands rigid, knuckles white against the table edge.
“I need to go,” I announce, my voice steady with the certainty of someone who’s found true north after years of following a broken compass.
“Go?” Mother’s voice cracks. “Go where? It’s nearly nine o’clock.”
“To find Bailey.” I’m already moving toward the door, pulled by something stronger than gravity. “To tell her I love her before it’s too late.”
“Sebastian, be reasonable. It’s late. You’re emotional.” Mother employs the tone she uses to talk people off social ledges. “Decide in the morning, after you’ve had time to think clearly.”
“I’ve never thought more clearly in my life.”
Mother stands. “At least wait until tomorrow. Sleep on it. Important decisions require—”
“Planning?” I cut her off, the word sharp as a blade. “Schedules? Perfect timing? That’s exactly what I’m trying to escape.”
I pull out my phone and dial the office. James answers on the second ring.
“Mr. Lockhart, good evening. What can I—”
“I need Bailey Monroe’s contact information.”
“The pilot?” His fingers are already clicking on his keyboard. “I believe we have it on file from the incident report, but, Sir, it’s rather late to—”
“Now, James.”