Chapter 24
Twenty-Four
BAILEY
The Chicago snow globe weighs a thousand pounds in my palm. Heavier than the diamond that he almost gave to another woman. Heavier than the words lodged in my throat like shards of ice.
He stands before me saying all the right things, his blue eyes earnest and pleading, and damn it all to hell, something inside me aches to believe him.
“This isn’t a Hallmark movie, Sebastian. Real life doesn’t work like this.” My fingers clench around the glass dome.
He shakes his head, those perfect features rearranging into disappointment, but I thrust my hand up between us. I can’t let him speak, can’t let that voice—the one that whispered my name in the darkness of our cabin—make me forget the reality of who we are.
“You’ll regret this.” My voice stays steady. “Maybe not today, but soon.”
“Bailey—”
“No. Let me finish.”
The terminal pulsates around us. Baggage carts shriek electronic warnings. I grip my flight clipboard until the plastic edge cuts into my palm.
“Your family? They’re forever. I’m just...a moment. A crisis response. Trauma bonding at its finest.”
His face shifts. A microscopic crack in those sculpted features I wouldn’t have noticed a few weeks ago. Before Alaska. Before I learned to read the secret language of Sebastian Lockhart’s expressions.
Good. Perfect. Better he hates me now than resents me later when the novelty wears thin. When the quirky pilot with no filter transforms from charming to exhausting. When his mother’s disapproving stare follows us through every room. When his business associates exchange glances behind my back.
My throat constricts as if someone’s hands are squeezing it, but I push through. Rip the band-aid. Clean break.
“Go home, Sebastian. Go back to your world. This?” I gesture between us, the motion sharp and disjointed. “This was just survival instinct. Nothing more.”
“That’s not true. You know that’s not—”
“What I know is that you’re running from one failed relationship into another. And I won’t be your rebound.”
His face crumples for a breathtaking second before he rebuilds that perfect mask. The one I watched crack piece by piece in our little cabin. The one I hate seeing back in place.
“Is that what you think this is?” he asks, his voice too controlled. Too calm. Too much like the man who first boarded my plane. “A rebound?”
I shrug, aiming for casual even as my heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to escape my chest and throw itself at his feet. Because that’s the truth—every part of me wants to cross this impossible chasm between us. To believe fairy tales exist outside snow globes.
“What else could it be? You were about to propose to someone else two weeks ago.”
He runs a hand through his hair, messing up that perfect style in a way that tightens something low in my belly. A simple gesture I’d give anything to witness every morning across a breakfast table.
“I was proposing to a perfect image that wasn’t real. I realize that now.”
“I need to go.” I take a step back, clutching my clipboard like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
“You’re afraid,” he says, and the simple truth of it stops me cold. “Of this being real.”
I want to scream the truth. I love you so much, it terrifies me. I love you beyond reason, beyond sense, beyond self-preservation. And that’s why I can’t do this.
“I’m not afraid. I’m practical. People like you don’t end up with people like me. That’s just basic math. Look at us.” My laugh sounds hollow, foreign, like it’s coming from someone else’s body. “You in your perfect suit, me in my cargo uniform. This isn’t a romance. It’s a cautionary tale.”
I want to tell him I see everything that could be. Every moment of happiness, every lazy Sunday morning, every argument over my snow globe collection taking over his minimalist apartment. I see it all so clearly, it burns.
And I see what comes after—the slow realization in his eyes that I don’t fit in his world. The growing distance. The inevitable end that would destroy me so completely I’d never recover.
Better a clean break now than a slow, painful death later. Better to rip out my heart while I still have the strength to survive it.
My composure slips—just a tiny crack, but he sees it. Of course he does. People are staring, which makes my skin prickle with awareness. Another audience for another Bailey Monroe disaster.
I’ve always been good at running. From relationships. From expectations. From anything that might hurt when it inevitably falls apart. Sebastian Lockhart is the dictionary definition of something that will hurt when it falls apart.
“Your mother was right. I am beneath you. And the sooner you realize that, the better for both of us.” His face... Don’t look at his face.
I stare at the ground instead. At his polished shoes. At the worn leather of my boots. At the physical evidence of the worlds between us.
I should go. I need to go. Every second I stay makes it harder to leave, harder to do what needs to be done.
But I can’t seem to move.
I thrust the snow globe toward him, my hand shaking so hard the tiny flakes inside swirl into a blizzard.
“No.” His voice is gentle but firm. Unmovable. “It’s yours.”
The Chicago skyline inside the globe blurs as tears burn behind my eyes. I blink them away because I won’t cry. “I don’t want your pity—”
“They’re not pity gifts. They’re promises.”
“Promises break,” I snap. My voice catches on the last word, betraying me. “Like Vegas.”
Like hearts.
“Not mine.”
My comm unit crackles to life at my hip, splitting the tension between us. “Monroe, get your ass in the cockpit or you’re grounded,” Captain Roberts’ voice—all gravel and impatience—echoes through my radio.
Great. Just great. Now I’m that pilot—the unreliable one causing delays. The one creating drama in public spaces. The too-much girl, on display for everyone.
“I have to go.” This time I mean it. This time, I have to mean it.
Sebastian takes a step forward, closing the distance I tried to put between us. “Bailey—”
“Monroe!” The comm crackles again. “Final call. What’s your status?”
My fingers fumble with the device, almost dropping it as I unhook it from my belt. “On my way, Captain. Two minutes.”
I clip the comm unit back to my belt. Pilot mode activated. Emotions locked away at thirty thousand feet, where they belong. My last chance to run before I do something stupid like believe in impossible things.
“I can’t do this,” I whisper.
“Bailey—”
I turn away before I can change my mind. One foot in front of the other. Left. Right. Just like takeoff protocols.
“Bailey, please—”
The desperation in his voice nearly breaks me. It wraps around my spine and pulls, and for a half-second, I almost turn around.
Almost run back to him.
Almost risk everything.
Almost.
“Goodbye, Sebastian.”
The words burn in my chest as I walk away, each step heavier than the last.
Regret tastes like airplane coffee—bitter, lingering, and impossible to swallow.
“Home, sweet home.”
I drop my flight bag and head straight for the shower. Maybe scalding water will scour away the hollow ache expanding beneath my ribs. Maybe steam will erase the memory of how his eyes looked when I walked away two weeks ago. Maybe heat will melt the ice forming around my heart since Anchorage.
I scrub my skin raw, as if I might wash away the places his hands touched. The places his eyes lingered. The places his words burrowed under my skin and nestled there, waiting to sprout into something dangerous.
It doesn’t work. Nothing works.
My phone sits on the bathroom counter, silent. I’ve checked it seventeen times today. Twenty-three yesterday. I know because I counted.
The last message came a week ago. Just three words
Sebastian
I miss you.
Before that, there were others. Funny at first—pictures of snow globes with captions like “Vegas misses you” and “Seattle says hi.” Then more direct: “Talk to me, Bailey.” “Just one word so I know you’re okay.” “Please.”
And now, silence.
The silence cuts deeper than his pleas. The silence means he’s accepted my rejection. The silence means I drove him away. The silence means I’ve won.
So why does victory taste like ashes?
I wrap myself in a towel and grab my phone, scrolling through his messages for the hundredth time. My thumb hovers over the call button.
What would I even say? I can’t get you out of my head?
The apartment feels too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes my skin prickle and my thoughts race. I pace the living room, dripping water onto the carpet.
The Seattle snow globe sits on my bookshelf, surrounded by my collection. He’s home now. With his family.
I pick it up, shake it. The tiny flakes swirl inside the perfect little world.
Two weeks. It’s been two weeks since I walked away from him. I should have moved on by now. Should have returned to my routine of cargo manifests and takeoff checklists and late-night TV with microwave dinners.
But every night I lie awake wondering if he’s sitting at a table with his parents, discussing charity galas and corporate mergers. If he’s already back with Rebecca, their perfect partnership restored. If he even thinks about me at all.
My phone chirps with incoming messages. The group chat—three dots bouncing as my friends bombard me with their usual chaos.
Cora
EMERGENCY WINE NIGHT. My place. Now. Non-negotiable.
Jill
Bailey Monroe, get your ass over here or we’re coming to you. With tequila.
Riley
I will kick down your door. I’ve been practicing my roundhouse kicks for exactly this scenario.
I smirk despite myself. My thumbs hover over the screen.
Not in the mood. Rain check?
The response comes instantly, a barrage of indignation.
Cora
You’ve been “not in the mood” since you were rescued from Alaska. We’re staging an intervention.
Riley
Is this about that guy? Because I WILL fight him. These biceps aren’t just for show.
Jill
She won’t fight him because she likes him. We all saw those press photos. That jawline could cut GLASS.
Riley
I didn’t say I wouldn’t make out with him after fighting him. I contain multitudes.
A laugh escapes me. These three lunatics have been my safety net since forever. They’ve dragged me through breakups, celebrated promotions, and once bailed me out of jail after a karaoke incident we’ve all sworn never to mention again.
It’s complicated.
Cora
Complicated = You’re still in love with him and refuse to do anything about it.
Jill
Ah, the Bailey Monroe Special. Fly planes, run from feelings, screaming.
I hate you all.
Riley
No, you don’t. Which is why you’re going to tell us what happened.
I hesitate, then type out the entire story. The airport. The snow globes. The things I said to push him away. My finger hovers over “send” for a long moment before I commit.
The phone stays silent for an excruciating thirty seconds.
Cora
Bailey. Honey. You’re an idiot.
Riley
Let me get this straight. A gorgeous billionaire chased you across the country with snow globes because he knows you’re obsessed with them, and you told him to fuck off because you’re scared?
Jill
I’m booking you a therapy session. And a flight to Chicago.
Cora
You didn’t even try. You sabotaged this before giving it a chance!
Each message makes me flinch because they’re right. Every single one of them.
Riley
What if this could actually work? What if he’s the one?
Jill
What if he’s the one?
Cora
What if you’re throwing away the best thing that could ever happen to you because you’re afraid?
What if I fly to Chicago and he laughs in my face?
Riley
Then we drink tequila and burn his building down.
Jill
RILEY NO
Riley
RILEY YES
Cora
Ignore the arsonist. But seriously. Won’t you always wonder if you don’t try?
She’s right. They’re all right. I stare at Seattle, the perfect little flakes now settled at the bottom of the globe. I need to fix this—call him, text him, something.
But what if it’s too late? What if he’s moved on? What if he’s realized I was right, and he’s better off without me?
Cora
Stop overthinking and do something, Monroe.
Riley
The boy bought you snow globes. That’s like the international sign for “I’m stupidly in love with you despite your prickly personality.”
Jill
You fly planes for a living. You can handle one conversation with a hot businessman.
One text. One call. One chance to undo the damage.
You’re right. I hate that you’re right, but you’re right.
Cora
First step of recovery is admitting you have a problem.
Riley
The second step is fixing said problem with grand gestures.
Jill
Or just, you know, honest communication. But sure. Grand gestures work too.
Their chaotic encouragement settles something in my chest. They’ve never led me wrong before—well, except for that time Riley convinced me to ride a mechanical bull after six margaritas. But even then, they were there to help me ice my bruises and salvage my dignity.
But texting isn’t enough. Words on a screen won’t fix what I broke. I need to see his face when I tell him I was wrong. I need him to see mine when I say I’m sorry. When I say that I’m terrified but willing to try.
The decision hits like a lightning bolt. Clear. Certain. Right.
I’m flying to Chicago.
Cora
You go, girl!
Lots of heart emojis.
I’m across the room in three strides, yanking my laptop open so hard it almost falls off the desk. The airline website loads slowly, each second stretching my already frayed nerves.
There’s a 6 AM flight to Chicago. One seat left in economy.
I book it, fingers flying over the keyboard before I lose my courage.
Tomorrow morning I’ll be in Chicago. No plan, no script, no idea what I’ll say. Just me, showing up, the way he showed up for me.
I grab my still-damp hair into a messy bun and start throwing clothes into a bag. Clean jeans. A sweater. My least wrinkled button-down. The Chicago snow globe, wrapped in my softest t-shirt.
“This is insane,” I tell my empty apartment. “Completely insane.”
But for the first time in days, the hollow feeling is gone, replaced by something else. Something that feels dangerously like hope.
He flew across the country for me. Found me in a cargo terminal with snow globes and promises.
The least I can do is board a plane and tell him he was right.