Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
SEBASTIAN
“Ican’t disclose employee schedules, Mr. Lockhart.” The cargo company receptionist taps her pen against the desk. “Though I hear the view from the Space Needle is beautiful this time of year. Something about the winter light.”
My pulse spikes. Five airports. Countless dead-end conversations. And now—finally—a thread to pull.
“I understand,” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Privacy policies are important.”
She glances over her shoulder and lowers her voice. “I didn’t tell you anything, of course.”
“Of course not.”
“Good luck,” she calls after me. “Whatever you’re chasing—must be worth it.”
“She is,” I say, the truest words I’ve spoken in my life.
My phone vibrates again. Mother, calling for the twelfth time today.
I silence it without looking, an act of rebellion that would have been unthinkable a few weeks ago.
The snow globes in my briefcase rattle against each other as I pivot, nearly colliding with an elderly couple examining the departure board.
“Sorry,” I mutter, steadying the man by his elbow. His tweed jacket feels rough beneath my fingers.
His wife peers up at me, recognition sparking in her eyes. “You’re that CEO, aren’t you? From the news? The one who survived—”
I don’t stop, already pushing through the terminal doors, pulse thundering in my ears. Another call. Father, this time. I power off the phone, severing the last tether to my old life.
I’ve called Bailey sixteen times since I left my parents at that dining table. Each attempt goes straight to voicemail. Each message more desperate than the last.
“Bailey, please call me back.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Bailey, I messed up. I know I messed up.”
The last one, left at 3 AM when sleep wouldn’t come.
“I miss your voice. Even when you’re talking about snow globe glitter density or making explosion sounds or telling me my tie is too tight. I miss all of it. I miss you.”
No response. Just silence. The one thing Bailey Monroe never gave me before.
I check the Seattle board, calculating. Flight departing in forty minutes.
The snow globes I’ve been buying at every stop clatter in my briefcase. Five so far, one for each airport I’ve searched. It started as an impulse in Chicago, passing that tacky tourist shop I would have sneered at two weeks ago. Now it’s become a ritual, a promise, a prayer.
Bailey’s number sits at the top of my contacts, though calling is pointless. I stare at her name on the screen, tracing the letters with my eyes. Six letters that somehow define everything I never knew I wanted.
The departure gate for Seattle looms on the other side of the terminal with only forty minutes to go. Of course it does.
I run. Sebastian Lockhart, CEO, running through an airport. My shoes skid on the waxed floor as I take a corner too fast.
Thirty-five minutes to departure.
“Excuse me,” I mutter, weaving through a tour group, their matching red caps blurring as I pass. “Sorry. Pardon me.”
The gate comes into view. Boarding is already in progress, passengers lining up with tickets and IDs in hand. My lungs burn from the sprint, but panic rises in my chest. I’m too late.
I rush to the counter, ignoring the queue. “I need a ticket on this flight.”
The gate agent looks up, startled. “Sir?”
She taps her keyboard, frowning at the screen. “I’m sorry, Sir. The flight is full. We’re boarding our final passengers now.”
“Please.” I grip the counter, past caring about appearances. “You don’t understand. I messed up. I messed up so badly.”
The agent glances at the growing line behind me. “Sir, I—”
“I met someone.” The words tumble out, unstoppable now. “Her name is Bailey. We were in a plane crash in Alaska, and she saved my life. Not just from the crash—from everything. From the emptiness I didn’t even know was killing me.”
The agent’s professional smile falters. Around us, passengers slow their movements, listening.
“She showed me what really matters, and when we got back, I didn’t fight for her. I let my family push me back into my old life, back toward a woman who’d betrayed me. I stood there and said nothing.” My voice cracks. “And now she won’t answer my calls. Sixteen calls. Sixteen messages. Nothing.”
The growing crowd has fallen silent. Even the overhead announcements seem to have paused.
“I’ll take anything—a jump seat, standing room, the cargo hold. I’ll fly strapped to the wing if that’s what it takes.” I run my hand through my hair. “I need to tell her I’ve left it all behind. That I stood up to my parents. That I love her.”
Something shifts in the gate agent’s expression. “Sir, I wish I could help, but—”
“I know.” I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, fighting for control. “I know it’s against policy. But I’m begging you. I can’t lose her. Not again.”
A woman in the boarding line steps forward—mid-sixties, practical cardigan, kind eyes behind sensible glasses. “Young man, this Bailey sounds like quite a woman.”
I turn, startled to find her so close. “She is. She’s extraordinary.”
“Take my seat.” She holds out her boarding pass. “14C.”
The gate agent intervenes. “Ma’am, we can’t allow ticket transfers for security reasons—”
“Then put him on standby and give him my seat when it opens up.” The woman smiles. “I can catch the next flight.”
“Ma’am—”
“Young man,” she interrupts, turning back to me, “is she worth missing this flight for?”
“Worth missing every flight for the rest of my life,” I answer without hesitation.
The woman nods. “I thought so. You have the same look my Henry had fifty-three years ago when he chased me down at the bus station.” She turns to the agent. “I’m suddenly feeling unwell. I’ll need to take a later flight.”
The agent sighs, recognizing defeat. “I’ll need to process this as a medical cancellation.”
Five minutes of paperwork later, I have a ticket in my hand. I turn to the woman, overwhelmed with gratitude. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Be happy,” she says. “That’s thanks enough.”
I pull out my wallet. “Please, let me at least cover your ticket and the inconvenience.”
“That’s not necessary—”
I’m already writing a check for an amount that makes her eyes widen. “For your next anniversary trip with Henry,” I say, pressing it into her hand. “Please take it. You’ve given me something priceless.”
She looks at the check, then back at me. “Young man, your Bailey is a lucky woman.”
“I’m the lucky one,” I say, boarding pass clutched in my hand like the treasure it is. “I just hope I get the chance to prove it to her.”
The cargo terminal crawls with workers who all give me suspicious glances.
My designer coat and polished shoes mark me as an outsider—a corporate intruder in their practical domain.
I don’t care anymore. I’ve shed so many versions of myself in the last twenty-four hours that one more transformation barely registers.
“Excuse me.” I approach yet another employee, this one sorting packages on a metal table. “I’m looking for Bailey Monroe?”
The woman barely glances up, her weathered hands never pausing their work. “Not allowed to give out personnel information.”
“Please, it’s important—”
“So’s this shipment.” She shoulders past me, clipboard clutched against her chest. “Security’s that way if you’ve got a complaint.”
I’m running before she finishes, ignoring the shouts that follow me. Another door, another hallway, another dead end. Signs blur past—2A, 2B, personnel breakroom.
I skid to a stop, backtrack. Breakroom. Where pilots might wait between flights.
Without hesitation, I burst through the door, startling three uniformed workers mid-conversation. Coffee sloshes from a mug, spattering the table.
“Bailey Monroe?” My voice sounds desperate.
A tall man stands, drawing himself up to his full height. “Hey, you can’t be in here. This is for personnel only.”
“Bailey Monroe,” I repeat, scanning the room like a drowning man searching for shore. “She’s a pilot. Please, I need to find her before—”
“Security!” someone calls.
I don’t move. These people stand between me and my last chance. “Her flight just arrived. She must be here somewhere. Please. I just need five minutes.”
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” the tall man says, reaching for a radio at his belt.
Five airports. Countless security guards giving me hostile looks. And still no Bailey.
For once in my life, I haven’t thought it through. Just felt. Just acted. Just followed this desperate pull toward the one person who made me feel real.
“Sir, I’m calling security now.”
My stomach plummets. Security. I’ve seen the interrogation rooms in airports—stark white walls, metal table bolted to the floor, cameras watching from every angle.
They’ll detain me, question me, maybe even search me.
The indignity of it flashes through my mind—latex gloves snapping, the humiliating bend and spread, fingers probing where no Lockhart has ever been probed before.
Father would die of shame. Mother would require hospitalization. The Wall Street Journal would run the headline: Lockhart heir detained in airport: cavity search reveals nothing but privilege.
And I don’t care. Not one bit.
They can strip me naked and examine every opening of my body. They can plaster my mugshot across every business publication in America. They can livestream my cavity search on the corporate website. None of it matters.
But what if she’s already gone? What if I missed her? What if this wild chase ends with me alone in an airport security office while her plane lifts off without her ever knowing I came?
I’ll sit in that security room with my naked ass on cold metal, and I’ll start again. I’ll search another airport. And another. And another. I’ll buy another snow globe. And another. And another. Until I find her.
“Bailey must be here,” I whisper, the words a desperate prayer. “She has to be.”
Just as the tall man reaches for my arm, the door swings open behind me.
My heart stops. Starts. Stops again.