Chapter 1 — Boarding the Unknown

Emma

The airport terminal buzzed with the usual chaos: announcements echoing unintelligibly, travelers dragging overpacked suitcases, and the faint, bitter aroma of burnt coffee mingling with the metallic tang of recycled air. Emma Bennett tightened her grip on her leather satchel, the familiar weight of her notebook inside grounding her in the swirl of motion. Her gate number glowed on the overhead screen like a beacon, and she quickened her pace, weaving through the throng with practiced efficiency.

This was it—the assignment she’d been waiting for. A feature piece on the hidden faces of Paris, a city of endless stories. Her mind flicked to her pitch: an intimate portrait of a bustling metropolis filtered through the quiet lives that often went unnoticed. It was a chance to showcase her voice to a broader audience, a moment to prove—to herself most of all—that she could thrive on her own terms.

The final boarding call crackled over the speakers as she reached the gate. A deep breath steadied her; she smoothed her tailored trousers and adjusted the strap of her satchel, ensuring its contents were secure. Confidence was her armor, always had been.

Stepping onto the plane, she was greeted by the cool, sanitized air and the subtle thrum of the engines. The faint scent of lemon disinfectant mixed with the muted hum of passengers settling in. She glanced at her boarding pass—seat 4A. Business class, window seat. She walked down the aisle, her heels clicking softly against the narrow carpeted floor. But when she reached her row, her steps faltered.

A man sat in her seat, flipping through an architectural magazine. His sandy blond hair was slightly tousled, as though it had forgotten the comb. His broad shoulders slouched into the seat with an ease that was immediately recognizable.

Her breath hitched. Her pulse stuttered.

Liam.

He hadn’t noticed her yet. The soft cabin light illuminated his profile, sharpening the line of his jaw and the faint crinkle at the corner of his eye. For a moment, she simply stood there, rooted in a fissure that had cracked through her composure. The years she had spent burying this exact moment, this exact man, seemed to unravel in an instant.

Emma swallowed hard and cleared her throat, her voice calm but clipped. “You’re in my seat.”

Liam glanced up, his blue eyes locking onto hers, and she saw the flicker of recognition. It was immediate and unguarded, a brief flash of something raw before he masked it with a more measured expression. Surprise, threaded with uncertainty.

“Emma,” he said, her name hanging in the air like a question.

She tightened her grip on the satchel strap. “Yes. And that’s my seat.”

He blinked, then glanced at his boarding pass. “Right. Sorry about that.” His voice was steady, but his movements as he stood were deliberate, careful, as though he were navigating a precarious balance.

Emma slid into the seat, her body stiff and her knuckles white as they gripped the armrests. She could feel him beside her as he reclaimed the aisle seat, the proximity jarring after years of comfortable distance. She busied herself by tucking her satchel under the seat in front of her and buckling her seatbelt, determined not to let her unease show.

“Small world,” Liam remarked, his tone casual, though his shoulders remained slightly rigid.

Emma turned toward him, her hazel eyes narrowing. “I didn’t realize you were heading to Paris.”

“Work trip,” he replied, holding up the magazine he’d been reading. “I’m presenting a project at an architectural symposium.”

“Of course you are,” she murmured, her words laced with faint irony.

He raised an eyebrow, but his only response was a slight smile, amused and knowing. “And you?”

“Assignment,” she replied curtly, turning her gaze to the window. The plane began its slow taxi to the runway, the lights of the terminal blurring into streaks against the darkening sky.

Liam didn’t press further, and for a moment, the silence between them was filled only with the low hum of the engines. Emma stared out at the night, willing herself to focus on the city awaiting her rather than the man seated beside her. But her mind betrayed her, conjuring images of another journey, another life.

It had been a train ride through Italy, years ago. She still remembered the warmth of his hand over hers, the laughter that tumbled between them as they planned their next stop. The sunlight streaming through the windows had painted their future in golden hues. Back then, everything had felt possible. Now, the space between them felt like miles.

The plane rose into the air, the cabin lights dimming to a soft glow. Emma exhaled slowly, retrieving her notebook from her satchel. She flipped through its pages, letting the sight of her precise handwriting steady her. Story ideas, fragmented observations, sketches of places she’d seen—all reminders of who she had become.

“You still carry that thing everywhere,” Liam remarked, his voice cutting through the quiet.

She glanced at him sharply. “I do.”

He smiled faintly, nostalgia softening his features. “I remember when you first got it. You said it was going to be your ‘compass.’”

Her grip on the notebook tightened. For a fleeting moment, she almost smiled—almost. “It still is,” she said, her tone cool, though the memory stirred something fragile in her chest.

Liam’s gaze lingered on her, as though he was sifting through the years between them. But whatever he wanted to say, he swallowed it. Instead, he leaned back in his seat and returned to his magazine, flipping a page with deliberate precision.

The tension between them was suffocating, and Emma refused to be the one to break it. She focused on her notebook, jotting a few thoughts about the flight: the scattered fireflies of city lights below, the rhythmic tremor of the engines. But no matter how hard she tried to concentrate, her awareness of Liam was inescapable. The way he adjusted his sleeves, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the sterile cabin air—it all pulled at the edges of her resolve.

“Emma,” he said suddenly, his voice breaking through her thoughts.

She looked at him, startled. “What?”

“Why Paris?” His tone was careful, almost tentative.

Her chest tightened. She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Why not? It’s a city full of stories. I’m a journalist. It makes sense.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, his gaze steady, searching.

Emma turned back to the window, unwilling to let him see the cracks in her armor. “It’s just work, Liam. That’s all.”

He didn’t press further, but the weight of his unspoken words lingered between them, heavy and unrelenting.

As the plane began its descent, Emma closed her notebook and tucked it away. Her thoughts were a tangle of frustration and memories. She had spent years building walls around herself, walls that had kept her focused, driven, safe.

But now, sitting next to Liam, she felt those walls shift, the foundation trembling beneath the weight of old emotions and unanswered questions.

The plane landed with a jolt, and Emma straightened, steeling herself. Whatever this was—this unexpected collision of past and present—she would handle it. She always did.

As they disembarked and stepped into the Parisian night, the city’s lights shimmering in the distance, Emma couldn’t shake the feeling that this journey was about more than just her assignment.

And Liam, whether she liked it or not, was part of it.