Chapter 1 — The Unexpected Reunion

Amelia

The boarding gate was a symphony of muted chaos. Snippets of conversations swirled around Amelia Duval as she adjusted the strap of her leather carry-on and shifted her weight from one polished loafer to the other. The flight to Paris was overbooked, and the airline staff, harried but composed, managed the crowd with clipped efficiency. Amelia tightened her grip on her boarding pass, her sharp hazel eyes scanning the crowd. She had planned every detail of this trip with the precision of a surgeon, down to her choice of aisle seat. The exhibition at Galerie Saint-Clair was her magnum opus, her chance to etch her name into the annals of Parisian art history. Nothing could be left to chance.

She inhaled deeply, the faint scent of jet fuel mixing with the antiseptic tang of the terminal. A small voice in her head whispered questions she refused to entertain: Was everything ready? Would she make the right impression? She brushed the thoughts aside, brushing a stray strand of dark brown hair from her face before tucking it back into the low bun at the nape of her neck. Her fingers grazed the faint scar on her left eyebrow, a habit she barely noticed anymore. The scar was a reminder of her younger self: impulsive, unpolished, and unafraid of falling. That girl felt like a stranger now. She had no room for anything less than perfection.

A soft laugh nearby caught her attention. An older woman with a vibrant scarf knotted loosely around her neck was chatting animatedly with the gate agent, her tone warm and teasing. The agent, a young man with a stiff posture, cracked a reluctant smile under her charm. “Ah, life is much kinder when we laugh at it, don’t you think?” the woman said, her green eyes sparkling with mischief. Amelia allowed herself a fleeting smile at the woman’s effortless ease but quickly turned her focus back to the gate.

“Boarding group two is now welcome to board,” the announcement crackled over the speakers. Amelia stepped forward, her passport and boarding pass at the ready. She offered the agent a polite nod as she passed through, her heels clicking against the jet bridge floor with measured confidence. Every step felt like a mantra: Paris. Perfection. Legacy.

The cabin was already bustling as she reached her row. She stowed her carry-on in the overhead compartment and smoothed the lapels of her tailored blazer before slipping into her seat. The aisle seat, exactly as she’d requested. She exhaled, letting the hum of the boarding process lull her into a momentary calm. She pulled out her bronze pocket compass, running her thumb over the engraved fleur-de-lis. It was a talisman of sorts, a link to her grandfather’s words: “Even when the path feels uncertain, you’ll find your way.”

Her brief moment of reverie shattered when a familiar voice, low and unhurried, cut through the din.

“Excuse me, I think that’s my seat.”

Amelia froze, her fingers tightening around the compass. The sound of his voice was like the faintest echo of a memory she’d spent months trying to bury. She turned her head slowly, her eyes locking onto the last person she expected—or wanted—to see. Ethan Blake stood there, holding a battered leather laptop bag and wearing that same infuriatingly relaxed smirk that had once been his signature. His sandy brown hair was a little longer, his five-o’clock shadow a touch more pronounced, but those piercing blue eyes were unmistakable. For a second, the world narrowed to just the two of them, the rest of the cabin fading into a blur. Her chest tightened, as if her body was bracing itself for impact.

“Ethan,” she said, her voice clipped, betraying none of the storm raging inside her. A whirlwind of images flashed through her mind—his laugh, their arguments, the night she’d walked away.

“Amelia,” he replied, drawing out the syllables as if tasting them for the first time in years. His gaze flicked to the seat beside hers. “Looks like we’re neighbors.”

Her stomach sank. “You’re in 12B?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

“Unless they’ve changed the laws of alphabetical order, yes,” he said, his tone laced with a sarcasm that once amused her and now felt like a thorn under her skin.

Without waiting for her permission, he slid into the seat next to hers, his leather bag landing at his feet. He stretched out, his casual demeanor a sharp contrast to her carefully composed exterior. The scent of his cologne—woodsy with a hint of spice—drifted toward her, uninvited. She stared straight ahead, her fingers tightening around the compass until the edges bit into her palm. She loosened her grip, slipping it into her blazer pocket, as if hiding it could restore her control.

The flight attendant’s voice interrupted the silence. “Ladies and gentlemen, we kindly ask that you stow all carry-on items and fasten your seatbelts as we prepare for takeoff.”

Amelia busied herself with her seatbelt, refusing to glance at him. Her pulse raced, betraying the calm exterior she so carefully maintained. She could feel his eyes on her, studying her with that same maddening mix of curiosity and amusement he always seemed to carry. Finally, he broke the silence.

“So, what’s taking you to Paris this time?” he asked, his voice deceptively casual.

“I’m sure you can guess,” she replied, her tone as cold as the recycled air blowing through the cabin.

“Ah, the exhibition,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “Let me guess—every detail meticulously planned? A dozen contingency plans in place?”

She turned to him, her hazel eyes narrowing. “And what about you, Ethan? Off to charm the literary world with your self-deprecating wit and tortured genius?”

His smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, but he recovered quickly. “Something like that,” he said, his tone light. But there was a flicker of something deeper in his eyes—guilt, maybe, or regret. She looked away, unwilling to let herself drown in the undertow of shared history.

Across the aisle, the older woman with the vibrant scarf glanced over, her green eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Oh, young love,” she murmured under her breath just loud enough for Amelia to hear, her voice tinged with amusement. Amelia’s cheeks warmed, but she said nothing, focusing instead on the window across the aisle.

The silence between them grew heavy, punctuated only by the occasional murmur of other passengers and the distant whine of the engines powering up. Amelia focused on the runway lights outside, watching them blur against the darkening sky. She thought of the stormy seascape painting she’d been debating for the exhibition. There was something raw and unsettling about it, something that made her feel exposed. It reminded her of this moment, sitting beside Ethan in the too-close confines of the airplane cabin.

“You’re quiet,” Ethan said, his voice breaking the tension. “Not like you.”

“Perhaps I’ve learned the value of silence,” she replied, her words sharp enough to cut.

He chuckled softly, the sound both familiar and foreign. “And here I thought you’d missed me.”

She turned to him, her gaze steady and unyielding. “That’s a dangerous assumption.”

Before he could respond, the flight attendant’s voice came over the intercom, announcing their departure. The cabin lights dimmed, and the plane began its slow crawl toward the runway. Ethan settled back in his seat, his expression unreadable.

As the plane lifted off, Amelia felt the compass grow warm in her pocket, the metal absorbing the heat of her palm. She adjusted her posture, her hands resting rigidly on her lap. She was determined not to let him rattle her. This flight was just a brief, inconvenient detour on her carefully charted path. Nothing more.

But as the plane climbed higher, the distance between her and the ground below mirrored the growing distance from the life she’d once shared with the man beside her. And no matter how tightly she clung to her plans, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the compass had shifted, ever so slightly, away from true north.