Chapter 29
Twenty-Nine
BAILEY
The cream cardstock invitation arrived eight weeks after Sebastian and I walked out of his family’s house. Two months of silence from his mother. Two months of her pretending her only child hadn’t chosen...me. She finally cracked, unwilling to lose him over what she’d called a “passing fancy.”
Now here I stand backstage at the annual Lockhart Foundation Charity Gala, clutching a snow globe like a talisman while my heart pounds hard enough to register on the Richter scale.
“Five minutes, Ms. Monroe.” A stagehand materializes, then vanishes just as quickly.
Five minutes until I step into the spotlight before Chicago’s elite. Five minutes until I stand where Sebastian asked me to—representing the Lockhart Children’s Neurodiversity Center, a charity close to my heart for reasons I’ve only recently begun to understand about myself.
I tug at the neckline of this gown for the forty-seventh time. The stranger in the mirror wears something that costs over three months of my salary. Her hair’s been sculpted by someone who charges by the strand, and her makeup required actual brushes instead of fingers and desperate hope.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the Lockhart Foundation...” My voice catches on “Lockhart.” I clear my throat and try again. “Ladies and gentlemen...”
My reflection stares back, eyes too wide, shoulders rigid with tension. Who am I kidding? These people devour women like me for appetizers. They must have special forks reserved for skewering uppity pilots who don’t know their place.
Two weeks I’ve practiced this speech. Two weeks of trying to iron out the edges, to sound smooth and proper and perfect. Everything I am not.
The irony doesn’t escape me. Sebastian didn’t fall in love with some polished, proper woman who knows which fork to use at Michelin-starred restaurants.
He fell in love with me—the pilot who named her aircraft Amelia, who collects snow globes, who talks too much and too fast about all the wrong things.
And I didn’t fall for the Lockhart name, or the zeroes in his bank account, or his perfect manners.
I fell for the man who faced down wolves with a single ax and a broken branch, who built a Christmas tree from pinecones in the middle of nowhere, who listens to me babble about cloud formations like I’m revealing the secrets of the universe.
I set my favorite snow globe down with a gentle click.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the Lockhart Foundation,” I say. “I’m Bailey Monroe. I fly planes, collect tacky souvenirs, and have a regrettable tendency to say inappropriate things at dinner parties.”
I straighten my shoulders and stare my reflection in the eye.
The woman in the mirror grins back. It’s me. Finally. Despite the designer packaging. I pick up the snow globe one more time, giving it a final shake, watching the miniature cabin disappear in swirling white—our beginning preserved forever in glass.
“Be yourself,” I whisper. “It worked with him. Maybe it’ll work with them.”
The glittering chandelier light from the Lockhart Grand Ballroom filters through the curtain gap. I peek out and immediately regret it.
So. Many. People.
More designer clothes and jewelry than I’ve seen outside magazine spreads. And they’re all waiting to hear me speak about something deeply personal.
“I’m going to hurl,” I mutter.
I should run. There’s a service exit fifteen steps to my left. I could be in a cab in two minutes, at the airport in thirty, flying cargo to anywhere-but-here by morning.
The microphone screeches, a high-pitched whine. Then her voice. Perfect diction, perfect projection, perfect, icy condescension.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us at the annual Lockhart Foundation Charity Gala.” Sebastian’s mother pauses for the polite ripple of applause.
“Tonight, we have a special guest. Please join me in welcoming Miss Bailey Monroe.”
The way she pronounces my name—like she’s plucking it with sterilized tweezers—makes me want to melt into the expensive carpet. The spotlights swing toward the stage entrance.
“Ms. Monroe?” The clipboard stagehand reappears, expectant.
Oh God. This is me. It’s really happening. My feet feel bolted to the floor.
I step out, and the spotlights swallow me whole. Hundreds of faces blur into a single, expectant mass. Diamonds flash, cufflinks gleam. Every eye is on me, and I can almost hear the collective thought: Who is this? Why is she here? What could she possibly say?
My hands tremble as I unfold my prepared speech. The words swim before me, all those crafted sentences designed to sound proper, polished, acceptable.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the Lockhart Foundation...” My voice is a tiny mouse squeak in the vast space.
Then I find him.
Sebastian. Standing at the edge of the room, a dark, solid presence in his tuxedo. He’s not looking at me with curiosity or judgment. His gaze is a laser beam of absolute certainty. He smiles, a slow, steady smile, and his lips form three words: You’ve got this.
I breathe deep. Look down at the paper. These aren’t my words. This isn’t me.
“I had a speech prepared,” I say, setting the paper aside. “It was very nice. Very proper. Very...not me.”
Someone in the front row shifts.
“The Lockhart Children’s Neurodiversity Center means more to me than you might guess,” I continue, my voice finding its strength. “I was the weird child. My report cards said ‘bright but talkative.’ ‘Distracted.’ ‘Inappropriate.’”
I look out at the faces, making eye contact now.
“What they meant was different. I was different. And I knew it, even if nobody ever gave it a name.”
My fingers twist together, a nervous habit, but I don’t stop.
“Growing up, I thought I was just...wrong. Doing everything wrong. Talking too much, missing social cues, fixating on things nobody else cared about. I thought if I tried harder, I’d fit in.”
A woman in the third row leans forward, her expression softening.
“I got good grades. I could do the work. I could behave...mostly. So I was fine, right? Except I never had friends. Because children know. They always know who’s different, even when they can’t explain why.”
The room is silent. No clinking glasses, no whispers, no shuffling feet.
“I was lucky,” I say, my voice steady now. “My parents never let anyone look down on me. They taught me I could do anything—which might explain why I fly planes through storms for a living while they desperately wanted me to be a doctor.”
A few chuckles ripple through the audience.
“They got a pilot instead. Mom still introduces me as ‘my daughter, the almost-doctor’ at family reunions.”
The laughter is genuine this time, spreading through the crowd.
“I had parents who defended me when teachers called me disruptive. Who understood that my snow globe collection wasn’t just weird but something that comforted me.”
I glance at Sebastian, his gaze a steady anchor.
“I’m many things. A woman. A pilot. A friend. A sister.” My heart pounds, but I push on. “And Sebastian taught me I could also be a partner—that someone could love me for who I am, not despite it.”
Heads nod. A hand reaches for a tissue.
“But not every child has that support. Not every child has someone telling them their differences are valid. That’s why centers like this matter. Because difference shouldn’t mean isolation. It shouldn’t mean shame.”
My voice cracks, but I keep going.
“I fly cargo because planes don’t judge me for talking too much. I collect snow globes because they’re predictable when the world isn’t. I notice patterns and details others miss. These aren’t defects—they’re me.”
Faces lean forward, listening intently.
“Every child deserves to know that being different isn’t being broken. Every child deserves the tools to navigate a world that wasn’t built for them.”
More tissues appear.
I risk a look at Sebastian’s mother. Her perfect composure has fractured. The mask of disapproval has fallen, revealing something I never expected. Understanding.
“Your donations tonight won’t just fund treatment or research,” I say, finding my rhythm, my conclusion. “They’ll fund acceptance. They’ll fund self-worth. They’ll help children understand their brains aren’t wrong—they’re just wired differently. And different can be beautiful.”
A man in the back nods slowly.
My voice swells, filling the room.
“Every dollar you give tonight offers a child the chance to be different without feeling wrong. To be themselves without apology. To find their voice instead of hiding it.”
The applause starts like distant thunder, then crashes over me, a deafening roar. One person stands. Then another. And they’re all on their feet, a standing ovation from a sea of tuxedos and gowns. They’re clapping as though I’ve delivered a profound truth, not just stumbled through my own.
I freeze. A room full of people standing for me. My brain short-circuits.
Sebastian pushes through the crowd. A man on a mission. His eyes are locked on mine, intense, focused. My heart performs that familiar flip it always does when he looks at me this way—the one that says you are my universe.
He takes the stage steps two at a time, crossing the distance between us with long, purposeful strides. Before I can think, his hands cup my face, and his mouth finds mine. The kiss is public, unapologetic, and utterly inappropriate for a charity gala.
It’s perfect.
The crowd, already loud, explodes. Whistles, cheers. Camera flashes pop like fireflies, guaranteeing this moment will be plastered across every society page tomorrow. Sebastian’s mother is probably having an aneurysm.
He breaks the kiss but stays close, his forehead resting against mine. “You were magnificent,” he whispers, his breath warm against my lips.
“I didn’t mention penguin mating habits once,” I whisper back.
He laughs, the sound vibrating through my chest. “Maybe save that for the after-party.”
His arm wraps around my waist, a solid anchor, as we turn to face the still-applauding crowd. I wave, my cheeks burning. Public speaking? Managed. Public attention? Still working on that.
We descend the steps, and the crowd surges forward. Congratulations, business cards, handshakes. Too many faces, too many voices, a dizzying mix of bright lights and expensive perfume.
Sebastian’s arm tightens, a silent shield.
“Thank you, we’ll be circulating shortly,” he says, his voice calm and authoritative, somehow making people back away.
Then she’s there. Sebastian’s mother. Impeccable in midnight blue, not a single silver hair out of place, pearls gleaming. The crowd parts for her like the Red Sea. In this world, she is royalty.
I brace myself for the inevitable disapproval, the polite, barbed comments. But her face is different. Softer.
“Bailey,” she says. My first name. The first time.
“Margaret.” I nod, resisting the urge to curtsy.
“That was an extraordinary speech.”
I wait for the “but.” There’s always a “but” with her.
She reaches out, takes my hands. Her fingers are cool, her grip firm. “I was too quick to judge you,” she says, her voice low, for us alone. “And I can see Sebastian is happy with you.”
“Well, I think it’s the snow globes. He’s building quite the collection now. We found this one in Miami that has tiny little—”
Sebastian’s hand squeezes my waist, a gentle reminder to breathe.
His mother’s lips curve upward. Not the practiced social smile, but something genuine that reaches her eyes. “I’d like to hear about them sometime,” she says. “Perhaps dinner next week? The four of us?”
“Dinner next week sounds...” My brain scrambles. Terrifying? A social minefield? An excellent opportunity to show my complete lack of silverware etiquette? “...Lovely,” I finish.
“Wonderful.” She gives my hands a last squeeze, then releases them. “My assistant will contact your assistant with the details.”
Before I can blurt out that I don’t have an assistant, just a phone that only works when it feels like it, and isn’t dropping calls over Wyoming, Sebastian’s father steps forward, taller than Sebastian, more silver at the temples, with the same piercing blue eyes that seem to dissect everything they see.
“Well said,” he offers with a curt nod. No smile. Just two words.
But the slight incline of his head feels monumental. It’s not a warm hug, but I recognize it for what it is—acceptance, Lockhart-style. From a man who probably hasn’t given approval without a financial statement attached in decades.
They melt back into the crowd, Sebastian’s mother engaging with a woman draped in diamonds, his father nodding at a man in a bow tie.
“Did that just happen?” I whisper, gripping Sebastian’s arm. “Did your mother just invite me to dinner? Voluntarily? Without a court order or a ransom demand?”
“She did.” His smile stretches wide, a genuine, joyful smile. “And did you notice that nod from my father? That’s a bear hug in Lockhart terms.”
He pulls me close, his arms wrapping around my waist. The ballroom buzzes around us, but in his embrace, the noise fades. I rest my head against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart through the expensive fabric.
“They’re never going to understand my snow globe collection, are they?” I murmur against his lapel.
“Probably not,” he admits, his voice a low rumble. “But they don’t have to understand everything to accept you.”
The crowd swirls, the music swells, and cameras flash, but none of it matters. In this moment, I know with perfect clarity—I don’t need their approval. I don’t need to fit into this world of wealth and privilege.
I just need this man who looks at me like I’m the most fascinating puzzle he’s ever encountered, who loves me not despite my differences, but because of them.
Sebastian’s fingers thread through mine, warm and steady. “Ready to face the rest of the evening, Captain Monroe?”
I rise onto my tiptoes, pressing a kiss to his lips, the crowd forgotten. “With you? I’m ready for anything.”
And I mean it. Whatever turbulence lies ahead, whatever storms we might face—we’ll navigate them together. His love is my compass, my true north.
In a world that never quite made sense, Sebastian Lockhart is the one thing that does.