Chapter3

The flight attendants came over almost immediately.

Two women in fitted uniforms quickly but politely escorted Savannah to an empty seat several rows forward, handing her a warm towel and a clean blanket.

An older chief purser stayed by my side. She bent down, her voice low enough that only I could hear.

"Ma'am, please calm down." Her tone was professional and gentle, but carried an unmistakable note of warning. "Miss Savannah is a frequent flyer with our airline and a VIP guest of L.J. Holdings. For the sake of your journey going smoothly, I suggest you... try to avoid any further conflict with her. It's better for everyone."

L.J. Holdings.

The registered name of Liam's company. He once joked that L.J. stood for his initials, and Holdings meant he'd own a lot someday.

At the time, I just thought he was ambitious.

Now it sounded like a punch to the gut.

I didn't want to make trouble for the flight attendants. They were just doing their jobs.

I nodded without speaking, just accepted the fresh glass of water she offered, holding it with ice-cold fingertips.

The plane made a connection in Denver.

The cabin became noisy, many people getting up to move around and retrieve luggage. I stayed in my seat.

I could temporarily turn off airplane mode now.

I looked at my screen, my fingertip hovering over Liam's chat window, pausing for a few seconds before typing.

[Where are you?]

The message was answered almost instantly.

A photo popped up: a messy desk piled with papers, a cheap hamburger eaten halfway, the background showing that familiar old office with the small window.

He'd deliberately captured the slightly crooked whiteboard in the corner, still covered with his scrawled financing plan notes.

The caption read: "Making money for my wife! Suffering through overtime. [crying face]"

I looked at that photo, recognizing every detail.

That marker that ran out of ink—I'd bought it at the convenience store last year.

That hamburger wrapper was from the cheap fast food place he always ate at.

Something cold and sharp crawled from my stomach all the way up to my throat.

Almost at the same moment, Savannah's voice came from the front rows, sickeningly cloying, cutting through the not-so-quiet background noise of the cabin.

"Liam? Guess what? I just got bullied by some crazy woman on the plane!" She drew out her words, sounding utterly wronged. "She threw water at me! My hair and dress are all wet. I look terrible!"

My fingers gripping the phone instantly tensed.

The phone wasn't on speaker, but I was close enough to faintly hear a familiar, amused male voice coming through the receiver, saying something in an indulgent tone.

"What? Really?" Savannah's voice shot up, full of delighted surprise and playful complaint. "To make it up to me, you're giving me full design control over the new oceanfront Hampton house renovation? Hmph... that's more like it! I'm going to do it in my favorite style, so don't complain about the cost!"

The man said something else, his low laughter traveling faintly through the connection.

It was Liam's laugh. I'd heard it for five years.

He laughed like this when making me happy, when pleased with himself, when trying to coax me.

Now, he was using that same laugh, just a few rows away, to indulge another woman.

With an oceanfront house in the Hamptons that I didn't even know existed.

The air in the cabin felt suddenly vacuum-sealed.

I opened my mouth but couldn't draw in a single breath of oxygen.

My heart pounded wildly, heavily against my ribs, the roar of rushing blood in my ears drowning out every other sound around me.

That photo of the shabby desk was still on my phone screen.

That half-eaten hamburger. That line "Making money for my wife."

The Hampton house.

Savannah's saccharine complaints.

Liam's damned, familiar laugh.

All the pieces stabbed into my brain at once, grinding my last shred of wishful thinking into a bloody pulp of truth.