Chapter 27 Sadie
Sadie
The vibration of the plane moves through my body, a constant reminder that I'm trapped in the air, hurtling toward the place I swore I'd never return to.
The leather seat beneath me is buttery soft, the cabin temperature perfect, but I can't relax.
My muscles stay coiled, ready for a threat that isn't here yet.
"Try to rest," Axel says, his voice low enough not to wake Poppy. She's finally drifted off after the excitement of takeoff woke her back up, her car seat securely strapped into the custom mounting bracket that appeared as if by magic when we boarded.
"I'm fine," I reply automatically, the lie so practiced it feels like truth.
Axel doesn't challenge me, just reaches for a cashmere blanket folded in the compartment beside him. He drapes it over my lap, his movements careful, deliberate.
"I'm not cold," I tell him, but I don't push the blanket away. The weight of it is oddly grounding, like the pressure vests they use for anxious dogs during thunderstorms.
"I know."
His hand claims my thigh, the heat of his palm burning straight through the blanket, through every layer of my defenses.
He’s not asking, not offering comfort—he just takes, like it’s his right.
I can’t stop staring at those fingers, remembering the way they dug into my hips as he drove into me, the way he held my face when I shattered around him, the same hands that make me ache now, even with my daughter sleeping ten feet away.
That electric contrast, gentle one moment, relentless the next, makes me want him even more.
The flight attendant, because of course this plane has its own flight attendant, approaches with a tray of drinks. "Water, Ms. Calloway? Or perhaps something stronger?"
"Water is fine," I manage, my throat suddenly dry. The crystal tumbler she hands me catches the light, refracting it in tiny rainbows across the table.
My mind drifts to the last time I was on a plane, fourteen months ago.
Poppy was just weeks old, strapped to my chest as I fled Oregon with nothing but a backpack and terror pulsing through my veins.
The cramped economy seat, the suspicious looks from other passengers when Poppy cried, the constant fear that Elliot would somehow stop the flight before takeoff.
Now here I am, returning on a private jet worth more than I'll earn in a lifetime. With a man I barely know but somehow trust with my life, with my daughter's life.
"You're thinking too hard," Axel says, his thumb tracing small circles on my thigh.
"That's my default setting."
His smile is brief but genuine. "I know that too."
The plane hits a pocket of turbulence, a quick drop that makes my stomach lurch. My hand grips the armrest until my knuckles turn white. Axel covers my hand with his, steady and warm.
"Normal," he says simply. "Just air currents."
I nod, trying to relax my grip, but my body won't cooperate. Every muscle remains tense, braced for impact. Not just from the plane, but from everything waiting for us in Oregon. From Elliot. From the courts. From the possibility that I might lose everything.
"Hungry?" Axel asks, gesturing to the flight attendant who hovers discreetly nearby. "Kitchen's fully stocked. Anything you want."
The thought of food makes my stomach turn. "I couldn't eat."
"You need to try. For strength."
He's right, of course. I need to be at my best when we land. Clearheaded. Strong. Not running on fumes and fear.
"Maybe some toast," I concede.
Axel speaks quietly to the attendant, who disappears toward the back of the plane. I check on Poppy again, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she sleeps. So innocent. So unaware of what's at stake.
"She's safe," Axel says, following my gaze. "You both are."
I turn to him, studying his profile in the clear morning light streaming through the windows. He looks completely at ease in this environment, the private jet, the staff, the luxury. It's his world, not mine. I'm just visiting, a temporary guest in a life I can barely comprehend.
"How often do you do this?" I ask. "The private jet thing."
"Not often. Family trips sometimes. Business occasionally." He shrugs, the gesture casual. "I prefer driving, actually. More control."
I understand that sentiment completely. In a car, you can change direction. Stop. Pull over. In a plane, you're committed to the path, helpless until you reach your destination.
The attendant returns with a small tray, toast, butter, jam, and a cup of tea that smells like chamomile. She sets it before me with practiced grace.
"Thank you," I murmur, surprised by the quality of service even in this small detail. The bread is artisanal, the butter in a tiny porcelain dish, the jam clearly homemade.
"Just press the call button if you need anything else," she says before retreating to her station at the back of the cabin.
Axel watches as I pick up a piece of toast and spread a thin layer of butter across it. His attention to these small actions should feel intrusive, but somehow it doesn't. It feels like care.
"You're good at this," I say, taking a small bite.
"At what?"
"Taking care of people. Making them feel… secure."
His smile is crooked, almost self-deprecating. "Not historically my reputation, but I'll take it."
I know what he means. I've heard enough from the town gossip to understand that Axel Slade is known for fun, not stability.
For good times, not serious commitment. The man sitting beside me, intensely focused, fiercely protective, completely reliable, seems like someone else entirely.
Or maybe this is who he always was beneath the carefree exterior. The real Axel, revealed only in crisis.
"It's new for me," he admits, his voice softening. "This need to protect, to make things right. I've never felt it before. Not like this."
The way he says it makes me look up. The intensity in his eyes catches me off guard. There's something raw there, something I'm not ready to name.
"Axel," I start, not sure what I'm going to say.
"You don't have to say anything," he interrupts gently. "I know the timing is terrible. I know we're flying into a shitstorm. But when this is over, when you and Poppy are safe…" He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "We should talk about what happens next."
I swallow hard, not sure what I’m feeling. "One crisis at a time," I manage, looking away.
"Fair enough." Axel's voice is soft, but his hand remains on mine, steady and warm.
The silence stretches between us, filled only by the hum of the engines and Poppy's gentle breathing. I try to focus on the toast, forcing myself to take small bites even though each one feels like swallowing sand.
"I'm not just afraid of Elliot," I finally say, the words spilling out before I can stop them. My voice sounds strange to my own ears, thin, almost fragile. "I'm terrified of the whole system."
Axel shifts in his seat to face me more fully, his expression open but not pushing.
"The courts, the judges, the lawyers, they don't know me. They'll see what Elliot wants them to see." My hands shake, and I set down the toast before I drop it. "A mother who ran away. Who changed her name. Who doesn't have fancy degrees or a stable address history. They'll judge me for all of it."
"The evidence speaks for itself," Axel says quietly.
"Evidence doesn't always matter." I look over at Poppy. "People see what they expect to see. And in a custody hearing, they expect the mother to be perfect. I'm not perfect. I'm… damaged. Paranoid. Always looking over my shoulder."
"You're cautious," Axel corrects. "With good reason."
I shake my head, the fear I've been holding back suddenly too big to contain.
"What if they take her from me? What if they believe him? What if—" My voice breaks, and I press my hand to my mouth, trying to hold back the sob building in my chest.
"Hey." Axel takes both my hands in his, his grip firm but gentle. "Look at me."
I force myself to meet his eyes, expecting to see pity or, worse, the patronizing reassurance people offer when they have no idea what they're talking about. Instead, I see calm certainty.
"The judge is a woman," he says simply. "Fifty-six. Two kids of her own. Consistently rules in favor of protecting children from manipulative parents. She's seen cases like this before—and she doesn't fuck around with men who use the system as a weapon."
I blink, surprised by the specificity. "How do you—"
"I did my homework." He squeezes my hands. "The lawyer waiting for us in Portland? He's handled three cases against Elliot's attorney. Won all of them. Knows every trick in their playbook."
A tiny spark of hope flickers in my chest. "You researched the judge?"
"And the courthouse security. And the clerk who'll process our paperwork." His mouth quirks up in a half smile. "I even know which bailiff will be on duty. Former military. Takes no shit from anyone."
Despite everything, a small laugh escapes me. "That's… thorough."
"I'm a details guy. When it matters." His thumb traces circles on my palm.
"Look, the system isn't perfect. But it's made of people. And people respond to preparation, to confidence, to truth. We have all three."
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly. But the fear is so familiar, so deeply rooted. "Elliot has money. Connections."
"So do I." Axel's voice hardens slightly. "More than he does. The difference is, I'm using mine to protect, not destroy."
The simplicity of that statement hits me with unexpected force. I've been so focused on running, on hiding, on staying small and invisible, that I forgot there's another option, standing and fighting, with the right resources behind me.
"What if I break down in there?" I whisper, voicing my deepest fear. "What if I can't hold it together when I see him? If I fall apart in front of the judge…"