Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
SEBASTIAN
“And which fork would you use for the truffled scallops, Ms. Monroe?”
Mother’s question slices through the dining room like an aimed dagger as Bailey freezes mid-reach. Six identical silver forks gleam beside her plate—an elegant minefield designed for her failure. The triumphant glint in my mother’s eye makes my blood simmer.
Bailey swallows hard, fingers hovering above the elaborate table setting. A woman who can navigate violent storms and land-damaged planes, now disarmed by my mother’s deliberate maze of cutlery.
“Mother, for God’s sake. The fork doesn’t matter—she’s a pilot, not the Queen of England. This ridiculous cutlery quiz is beneath you.” The words escape before I can stop them, shocking even myself with their bluntness after thirty-four years of perfect compliance.
Mother’s wine glass freezes halfway to her lips. Bailey’s eyes widen beside me, her jaw dropping.
“Sebastian,” Father warns from the head of the table, his voice low and dangerous. “Apologize to your mother. Now.”
Bailey shifts beside me, her body tense. She’s preparing to leave, to run. Her hand slides from mine, and without looking, I catch it mid-escape, lacing our fingers together.
“No,” I say.
Mother’s sculpted eyebrows arch toward her hairline. “Excuse me?”
“I said no.” The syllable tastes revolutionary on my tongue. “I won’t apologize for bringing the woman I love to meet you. I won’t apologize for choosing happiness over appearances. And I certainly won’t apologize for living my life instead of the script you’ve written for me.”
“This is absurd,” Father interjects, folding his napkin with surgical precision. “You’re throwing away everything we’ve built for a—”
“Careful,” I say. “Whatever you’re about to say, I suggest you reconsider.”
Bailey squeezes my hand, her touch grounding me. I draw strength from this woman who faced wilderness and wolves without hesitation, who navigates the sky with the same confidence I once reserved for boardrooms.
“Sebastian.” Mother switches tactics, her voice softening to that manipulative tone I’ve heard a thousand times. “You’ve always been impulsive beneath that controlled exterior. But this passing fancy—”
“Fancy?” A laugh breaks free, startling in this room where laughter has always been measured and appropriate. “Mother, I’ve spent my entire life imprisoned by artifice. Obsessed with perfection. Consumed by being the flawless Lockhart heir.”
Mother’s smile tightens as Bailey shoots me a grateful glance. The silent war across my parents’ formal dining table has escalated through three courses, with Bailey as the unwitting battlefield.
The tension stretches between us, thick enough to cut with one of Mother’s imported silver knives.
Father clears his throat, attempting to navigate us back to safer conversational waters.
“So, Sebastian tells us you...fly cargo?”
“Yes, sir,” Bailey answers, her voice taking on that bright, brave quality I’ve come to recognize. “Last month, I transported a shipment of exotic reptiles. One escaped in the cockpit—a baby python. Had to land one-handed while holding it behind the head.”
Father’s knife pauses midway through his filet mignon. Mother’s practiced smile freezes in place.
“How... resourceful,” Mother manages, signaling the server to refill her wine glass for the third time since the appetizer.
I slide my hand over Bailey’s knee beneath the table, squeezing.
She’s been trying so hard—wearing the blue dress she bought specially for tonight, researching proper etiquette, practicing small talk.
All while my parents set subtle traps and exchange meaningful glances that might as well be spoken insults.
Bailey’s hand slips from mine, and I turn to see her eyes shimmering.
“Excuse me,” she whispers, “I’ll be outside. Just need a minute.”
The look in her eyes stops me from following. She needs space, and I respect it rather than trying to control the situation as I would have before meeting her.
I watch her walk away, steps measured and dignified despite everything. The dining-room door closes with a soft click that somehow echoes louder than any slam.
“Well,” Mother says into the silence, dabbing her lips, “I suppose that demonstrates my point.”
My hands curl into fists. Bailey would have the perfect comeback—something inappropriate yet devastatingly accurate about Mother’s condescension or Father’s disdain.
“Really, Sebastian,” Mother continues, voice dripping with superiority, “surely you see she’s after your position. The tabloids are already questioning your...judgment.”
The crystal glass trembles in my grip.
“Enough.” My voice emerges, stripped of its practiced polish. “You don’t get to judge her while she stands outside being braver than anyone at this table.”
“Sebastian—” Father says with that warning tone.
“No.” I push back from the table, chair scraping against imported marble. “You either accept her, or you lose me. It’s that simple.”
Mother gasps.
“I won’t choose between Bailey and family. If you can’t accept her, then I’m done with all of this.”
“You don’t mean that,” Mother whispers, clutching her pearls.
“Watch me.”
I scan the dining room with new clarity—the hand-painted Chinoiserie wallpaper, the antique silver candelabras, the crystal glasses worth more than most people’s monthly rent. It all looks hollow, elaborate props for a life I’ve been performing rather than living.
“Sebastian, sit down. We can discuss this rationally—” Mother’s voice carries that edge that usually ensures my compliance.
But I’m already moving toward the door. Toward Bailey. Toward love.
How many dinners have I endured in this mausoleum? How many times have I swallowed my thoughts along with the food?
My hand closes around the ornate door handle—solid brass imported from Italy, because nothing in this house can be ordinary. Nothing except emotions, which must remain contained.
Bailey stands just outside the door, arms wrapped around herself. Those incredible green eyes widen. She heard everything.
“You shouldn’t have—”
“Yes. I should have.” My voice comes out raw, stripped of pretense.
I take her trembling hands in mine, stroking my thumbs across her knuckles to warm them, to anchor us both.
“I’m done playing it safe. You’ve shown me what it means to truly live.” A tear escapes down her cheek. I catch it with my thumb. “I meant what I said. I want my future moments with you—with or without my family’s blessing.”
Her lower lip trembles as she searches my expression.
“You’re honest and real, and that’s what I love about you. I won’t pretend my family’s approval matters more than the woman I love.” My voice breaks, and I let it. “The woman I love,” I repeat, stronger this time.
“I choose you, Bailey. Always.”
Her hand is steady in mine as her eyes search my face.
“You’ll regret this,” she whispers, the statement lifting at the end like a question.
“The only thing I’d regret is letting you go.”
Through the closed door, Mother’s voice rises. “Sebastian, come back here this instant!”
Bailey’s lips quirk upward. “Your mom sounds like mine when I chose piloting over medical school.”
“Did you go back?”
“Not a chance.”
Laughter erupts from somewhere deep inside me—unfettered and wild. Bailey’s eyes widen.
“I’ve never heard you laugh like that,” she whispers.
“I’ve never felt this free.”
The dining room door flies open. Mother stands framed in the doorway, Father behind her, their faces twin masks of shock.
“Sebastian, enough of this nonsense.” Father’s voice carries generations of Lockhart's expectations.
I look at Bailey—her unfiltered brilliance, her magnificent chaos, her complete inability to be anything but herself.
“Ready to fly?” I ask.
The surprise on her face transforms into something fierce and beautiful. She nods once.
“Sebastian!” Mother’s voice reaches that pitch reserved for social catastrophes.
But we’re already moving toward the front door, toward liberation, toward an unscripted future.
Bailey draws a sharp breath beside me. “Are you sure?”
“Never been more certain.”
The night air hits us like freedom as we step outside. Stars glitter across the Chicago sky, visible even through city lights.
God, I love this woman.
“Ready to crash and burn with me?” I ask.
Her laugh emerges watery but genuine. “Always preferred turbulent flights.”