Chapter 1 — The Red-Eye Reunion

Amelia

Amelia Carter strode through the terminal with purpose, her carry-on rolling smoothly behind her. The familiar weight of her sleek silver bracelet rested against her wrist, her fingers brushing over its polished surface, her touch brief but deliberate. A grounding ritual. Her sharp hazel eyes flicked to the overhead clock. On schedule. The flight was on time, and her itinerary for the next forty-eight hours in Paris was as tightly packed as her suitcase. There was no room for error, no room for surprises. She had planned everything down to the last minute.

Her pumps clicked with precision against the tiled floor as she wove past clusters of travelers. The boarding gate was already a hive of activity—a blur of weary businesspeople, harried parents wrangling toddlers, and couples clutching passports with giddy anticipation. Amelia was none of them. This trip wasn’t about leisure. It was about business, ambition, and executing her career-defining gala to perfection. A faint smile played at the corner of her lips as she adjusted the coral silk scarf knotted neatly at her throat. Paris was waiting. Success was waiting.

At the counter, she handed over her boarding pass with a practiced efficiency, offering the attendant a polite but distant nod. The cabin doors loomed ahead, and with them, the promise of order—a controlled, predictable cocoon at thirty thousand feet. She ascended into the plane and located her seat with ease. Seat 12A—business class, naturally. Amelia slid her carry-on into the overhead compartment, her movements precise, her thoughts already moving to the checklist waiting on her tablet. As she settled into the plush leather seat, the faint hum of the engines and the sterile glow of cabin lighting wrapped around her like a well-tailored coat.

The tablet came out next, a lifeline of schedules, notes, and meticulously color-coded deadlines. She opened her calendar app, scrolling through the chaos with an almost meditative focus. Guest lists, floral arrangements, seating charts—each detail demanded perfection. As her eyes skimmed the screen, she felt a small, rare flicker of satisfaction. Control. This was her domain.

Her satisfaction shattered with the sound of a voice—low, familiar, and entirely out of place.

“Excuse me, I think this is my seat.”

Amelia froze. Her fingers hovered over the screen, her pulse quickening in defiance of her carefully constructed calm. Slowly, she turned her head, her gaze locking onto the man standing beside her. His pale blue eyes met hers, widening slightly in recognition. Her chest tightened, a sharp inhale catching in her throat. Liam Harrington. Her ex-husband.

He hadn’t changed much. Still lean, still scruffy, his wavy blond hair falling over his forehead as though he’d been running his hands through it. A battered leather messenger bag hung over his shoulder, and his fingers—still faintly smudged with charcoal—gripped the strap loosely. He looked like a man who could never completely leave his art behind, even when he tried.

“Liam,” she said, her voice clipped and controlled, though her heart pounded against her ribs. “What are you doing here?”

He gave her a small, almost sheepish smile, the kind that still had the power to unsettle her. “Flying to Paris,” he replied simply, gesturing to the seat beside her. “Looks like I’m your neighbor for the next... eight hours.”

Her mind scrambled to process this unwelcome twist. Of all the flights, of all the seats. The universe, it seemed, had decided to play a cruel trick. She pressed her lips into a thin line, nodding toward the seat with a brusque, “Fine.”

Liam settled into 12B with an ease that only irritated her further. He slid his bag under the seat in front of him, his movements unhurried. For a moment, the two of them sat in a charged silence, the air between them crackling with a tension Amelia wasn’t ready to name. She turned back to her tablet, determined to ignore him, but the weight of his presence—so close, so familiar—was impossible to shake. The faint scent of his cologne stirred memories she had no business revisiting: stolen mornings in their cramped apartment, his fingers smudged with paint as they traced her cheek. She pushed the thoughts aside, burying them beneath her to-do list.

“Small world,” Liam murmured eventually, his voice carrying a trace of humor. “Or maybe the universe has a sense of humor.”

Her lips tightened. “Let’s go with bad luck.”

He chuckled softly, a sound that grated more than it should have. “You haven’t changed much.”

She set her tablet down, her movements deliberate, and turned to face him fully. “What do you want, Liam? Why are you even on this flight?”

His smile faded, replaced by something calmer, steadier. “I didn’t plan this, Amelia. Believe me, I’m as surprised as you are.”

She studied him, searching for hidden motives. But his pale blue gaze was unguarded, his posture relaxed. Genuine. And yet, the memories their proximity unearthed were anything but. The fights. The compromises. The years of unraveling what had once felt unbreakable.

The flight attendants began their safety demonstration, and Amelia seized the opportunity to break eye contact. She fastened her seatbelt briskly, her knuckles tightening around the buckle. Flying always made her uneasy, though she would never admit it—not even to herself.

The plane ascended, and the lights of the city below faded into a sea of darkness. Amelia tried to lose herself in her tablet, but her focus betrayed her. Every shift of Liam’s body, every faint rustle of his bag, drew her attention. Why was he going to Paris? Was he still painting? Did he ever wonder about her, the way she sometimes—briefly—wondered about him?

“I didn’t know you still flew back and forth for work,” Liam said, breaking the silence.

She leveled him with a sharp look. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

He raised his hands, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Fair enough. Just making conversation.”

“Well, don’t.”

Another silence stretched between them, heavier this time. The cabin lights dimmed, and the hum of the engines droned on. Amelia leaned back, closing her eyes, but rest eluded her. She could feel Liam shifting beside her, his movements irritatingly familiar. Her gaze flicked to his hands, half expecting to see that sketchbook he always carried. The thought made her chest tighten.

The turbulence struck without warning. A sharp jolt rocked the plane, and her eyes snapped open. The cabin lights flickered, and a murmur of unease rippled through the passengers. Another jolt followed, stronger this time, and Amelia’s stomach lurched. Her fingers gripped the armrests, her breath quickening, her pulse hammering in her ears. She felt the cool press of her bracelet against her palm, but its usual comfort failed her.

“It’s just turbulence,” Liam said gently. His voice was calm, steady.

“I know that,” she snapped, though her hands betrayed her fear, trembling against the armrests.

The plane jolted again, and suddenly, without thinking, Liam reached over and covered her hand with his. His touch was warm, grounding, and Amelia froze, her breath catching for an entirely different reason.

“You’re okay,” he said softly, his thumb brushing lightly against her knuckles. “It’ll pass.”

And it did. The turbulence subsided as abruptly as it had begun, leaving the cabin in a tense quiet. But Liam didn’t pull his hand away, and Amelia found herself staring at their joined hands, her mind reeling. For a moment, she felt something she hadn’t allowed herself in years: vulnerability. It terrified her.

She pulled her hand back sharply, her voice cold. “I don’t need your comfort, Liam.”

His expression flickered—hurt, perhaps—but he nodded, withdrawing his hand. “Of course.”

The rest of the flight passed in strained silence. Amelia kept her eyes fixed on the screen in front of her, pretending to watch a movie, but her thoughts refused to cooperate. When the plane finally began its descent into Paris, she exhaled a shaky breath, relieved the ordeal was almost over.

As they disembarked, Liam turned to her one last time. “Amelia—”

“Don’t,” she interrupted, her voice firm. “Whatever this is, it ends here. Enjoy Paris.”

He hesitated, searching her face, then nodded. “Take care, Amelia.”

She watched him walk away, her chest tight with emotions she couldn’t name. Straightening her scarf, she squared her shoulders and stepped into the terminal. Paris was waiting. Success was waiting. And she wouldn’t let anyone—not even Liam Harrington—derail her plans.