8. Ethan #2
“My planes go here,” he says, gesturing to the shelves. “Those are books I still like. Those are books I used to like. Captain isn’t allowed on the bed, but he does it anyway. If the night light flickers, it means it’s unplugged behind the dresser.”
Addy nods, happily being briefed on her mission. “Understood. High stakes.”
He points to a drawing on the wall. “That one’s from school.”
“It’s good.”
“It’s a runway.”
“I could tell.”
He studies her, trying to determine if she’s telling the truth or being kind.
Apparently, he decides in her favor.
Good.
We continue.
By the time we return to the main living area, Captain has fully reassigned his loyalties and is following Addy closely enough to risk collision every time she changes direction.
Oliver, though less obvious in his attachment, remains nearby as well, continuing to ask questions that are really assessments in disguise.
I stand slightly apart and watch.
Addy is crouched near the coffee table now, helping Oliver reconstruct some unnecessarily complicated aircraft model while Captain rests his head against her knee as if this arrangement has existed for years.
She doesn’t look out of place.
That’s the problem.
Or perhaps the solution.
I haven’t decided which.
The apartment's quiet except for Oliver’s voice, Addy’s occasional responses, Captain’s contented sighs, and something else I haven’t heard in this space for some time.
Ease.
I don’t trust it.
But I notice it.
Addy says something I don’t catch. Oliver answers with unexpected seriousness, and she laughs softly, not at him, but with him, which is a distinction many adults fail to understand.
My phone vibrates.
I look down.
Sara Williams.
I answer immediately. “What is it?”
“You need to come in.”
There’s no preamble. Sara never wastes time on one.
“That narrows nothing,” I say.
“It’s the Zurich account. They’ve moved up the review, and legal is already circling because no one in this building knows how to function when money is involved unless you’re physically present.”
I glance once toward the living room.
Addy is still crouched beside Oliver, one hand holding part of the model while he explains, at length, why one wing design is superior to another. Captain has now shifted fully onto her foot.
A practical picture.
A stable one.
More than I expected on the first day.
“When?”
“As in now, Ethan.”
I look toward the skyline, then back to the room. “I’ll be there in twenty.”
“Make it fifteen.”
She ends the call before I can answer, which is typical.
I slide the phone back into my pocket and cross toward them.
Oliver looks up first. “Are you leaving?”
“Yes.”
His attention sharpens slightly. “For work?”
“For work.”
He accepts that with less visible disappointment than he did when he was younger, though I still see it. “Okay.”
I shift my gaze to Addy. “My head of PR needs me at the office.”
Her expression changes almost imperceptibly. “Right. Of course.”
“I won’t be long.”
She rises slowly, brushing her hands against her jeans. “We’ll be fine.”
I nod once. “Oliver’s had breakfast, but he needs lunch soon. He’ll try to negotiate for something less nutritious. Don’t indulge him.”
Oliver looks offended. “I don't negotiate.”
“You absolutely do.”
“I just say other ideas.”
Addy bites back a smile. “Good to know.”
I look between them, then at Captain, who's still stationed beside her as an accomplice.
This could work.
Not perfectly. Nothing is.
But well enough.
“Read before bed,” I say to Oliver.
“I know.”
I glance at Addy. “If you need anything, call.”
“I’m capable of locating a refrigerator on my own, but thank you.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
Her gaze meets mine for half a second longer than necessary.
“I know,” she says quietly.
I hold that look for one moment too long, then break it before the room can become less manageable.
My jacket is in the study. I retrieve it, cross the apartment, and leave before I can think too carefully about the fact that I'm walking out of my home with the distinct sense that it may continue breathing without me.
Strong AeroTech headquarters doesn't require introduction.
It announces itself.
The tower rises over the Chicago River in glass and dark steel, its exterior designed to reflect the city, while remaining unmistakably apart from it. From a distance, the building appears almost too precise to belong to the skyline it occupies. Up close, it’s impossible to mistake what it is.
Power.
Intent.
Money.
Though wealth alone has never interested me unless it served a function.
This building does.
The car pulls beneath the private entrance, where security is already in motion before I step out.
The lobby beyond is expansive without being indulgent, all marble, brushed metal, and restrained lighting designed to direct movement rather than invite pause.
A suspended installation shaped as a fractured wing spans the center of the atrium, catching the light in a way that suggests movement even at rest.
I cross the lobby at a pace that discourages interruption. Reception acknowledges me with practiced efficiency. Security falls into alignment without making it obvious. My access grants every door I approach. Nothing here's accidental. Not the architecture or the systems. Especially not the people.
I built it that way.
By the time I enter the executive floor, the environment has shifted again.
Less display, more function. Floor-to-ceiling glass along the corridor, conference rooms enclosed in smoked panels, private offices positioned to maximize visibility and control.
The city stretches beneath the building in every direction, though the dominant view from this level is the river and the lake beyond it.
Sara is waiting outside the boardroom with a tablet in one hand and the expression of someone who’s already dismissed three inadequate solutions before my arrival.
She falls into step beside me immediately. “They want revised guarantees on the deployment schedule.”
“They can want whatever they like.”