Chapter 1 — Chance Reunion

Amelia

The cabin air was thick with the hum of engines, mingling with the faint, bitter scent of overbrewed coffee. Amelia Hartfield slid into her window seat on the transatlantic flight, her weathered leather messenger bag tucked neatly beneath the seat in front of her. She adjusted her tailored blazer, exhaling slowly. Paris loomed ahead like a puzzle she couldn’t quite solve—a city of nostalgia, promises, and professional urgency. This assignment, her editor had insisted, would be career-defining. And yet, a nagging doubt curled at the edges of her excitement. Could she truly capture the lives of expatriates in a way that felt meaningful?

She glanced toward the aisle, scanning the boarding passengers. A stranger, she thought. Someone quiet, preferably with a penchant for sleeping through flights. The last thing she needed was forced small talk. Her mind was already crowded with thoughts of deadlines and the faint pang of memories she had no time to entertain.

The cabin filled with the shuffle of bags being stowed, clipped apologies exchanged. Then, a figure caught her eye—a tall man with tousled dark brown hair. He wore a button-down shirt, its sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms dusted with flour—or was that her imagination filling in details from long ago? Her heart stuttered, followed by the sudden, sinking recognition.

Ethan Hayes.

She turned sharply toward the window, heat rising to her cheeks. Of all the flights, of all the seats, of all the people in the world—no. It couldn’t be. The odds were astronomical. Her grip tightened on the strap of her bag, her pulse quickening. The universe had a cruel sense of humor. Seeing him again, here of all places, felt like an ambush. A ghost suddenly made flesh.

But then she heard his voice, low and familiar, apologizing to a flight attendant as he maneuvered his carry-on. Her breath caught as he stopped beside her row.

“This one’s me,” he said, his tone casual, as though the moment weren’t absurd. She stiffened, her pulse thrumming in her ears.

“Amelia?” His voice softened, hesitant. She turned, green eyes locking with his brown ones. For a breathless moment, the hum of the cabin dimmed, swallowed by the weight of recognition.

“Ethan,” she said, her voice steady but cool. “What a surprise.”

His lips curved into the faintest of smiles, one she couldn’t quite decipher. “Yeah, small world.”

“Too small,” she muttered under her breath as he stowed his bag and eased into the seat beside her. She pressed herself against the window, her fingers toying with the strap of her bag, itching for her journal—something to anchor her. But she didn’t open it. Not yet.

The air between them grew thick with unspoken words. Silence, she thought, would be safer. But silence had never been Ethan’s style.

“So,” he began, leaning back with a sigh, “Paris. Work, I assume?”

She glanced at him, her voice clipped. “Yes. You?”

“An audition,” he replied. His gaze flickered downward for a moment, and she caught the barest hesitation in his tone. “At Chef Laurent Moreau’s restaurant.”

Her brow arched in surprise. “Big ambitions.”

He chuckled softly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, well. Gotta aim high. It’s a long shot, but… I’ve got to give it a go.”

She studied him, noting the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the way his shirt looked a little more worn than she remembered. His hands rested quietly on his lap, fingers still, but she noticed the faint calluses along his knuckles—remnants of countless hours in the kitchen. He seemed tired, worn down in a way she couldn’t quite place. And yet, there was still that flicker of determination. Or was she just searching for things that weren’t there?

“And you?” he asked, his voice pulling her back. “What brings you to Paris?”

“An article,” she said, keeping her tone even. “Exploring the lives of expatriates—why they stay, what they leave behind.” She hesitated, then added, more to herself than him, “It’s... important.”

“Sounds thoughtful,” he said, his mouth curving slightly, though she detected a trace of amusement. “Very Amelia.”

She bristled at his familiarity, the way his comment felt like both a compliment and a jab. She turned back to the window, watching the ground crew move like ants below. Paris was supposed to be a city of new stories, not old ghosts.

The plane taxied, the captain’s voice crackling over the intercom. Ethan shifted beside her, his knee brushing hers for a fleeting second. She flinched, pulling her legs closer, her pulse quickening despite herself.

As the plane ascended, the engines roared, the vibrations thrumming through her body. Amelia tried to lose herself in the shrinking view of the city below, but Ethan’s presence was impossible to ignore. She could feel the weight of his gaze, the way he seemed to study her without speaking.

“How’s your restaurant?” she asked suddenly, her voice sharper than she intended. She regretted it immediately but couldn’t take it back.

The pause that followed was longer than she expected. He swallowed, his jaw tightening before he spoke. “It closed,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with something fragile. “A couple of years ago.”

She turned to him, startled by the vulnerability in his tone. He wasn’t meeting her gaze, his shoulders tense. The Ethan she remembered had been so full of dreams, his passion for cooking practically radiating from him. Seeing him like this—a little worn, a little diminished—felt unsettling.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, catching herself before her tone grew too warm. She wanted to keep the distance, to protect herself from whatever this encounter might unearth.

He shrugged, though the movement felt heavy. “It happens. Took a while to bounce back, but… here I am.” He offered a small, self-deprecating smile, as though daring her to challenge him.

Her fingers itched for her journal, for something tangible to distract her from the sudden weight in the air. She glanced at Ethan’s hands again, thinking of how he’d once carried his knives with pride, how his fingers had moved with surety and care. Now, there was a stillness to him that felt foreign.

The conversation lulled, both of them retreating into their thoughts. Amelia pulled out her phone, scrolling aimlessly through photos until one stopped her cold. It was a picture of the two of them on their honeymoon, standing on a bridge in Paris. The light had been golden, their smiles unguarded. Her finger hovered over the delete button, but she couldn’t bring herself to press it.

A sudden jolt of turbulence sent the phone tumbling from her hands. It landed face-up on Ethan’s tray table, the photo glaring up at them both. Her heart lurched.

Ethan picked up the phone, his eyes narrowing as he studied the image. “I remember this,” he said softly, more to himself than to her. His thumb brushed the edge of the screen before he handed it back.

She snatched it quickly, her cheeks burning. “It’s—old,” she stammered, her voice unsteady. “I just haven’t cleaned out my gallery.”

“Right,” he said, though his expression betrayed a flicker of something—nostalgia, maybe? Or regret? It twisted her stomach.

The turbulence subsided, but the tension between them did not. She shoved the phone back into her bag, her hands trembling slightly. The silence that followed was deafening, filled with the weight of the things they weren’t saying.

When the flight attendant came by with drinks, Ethan ordered whiskey. Amelia opted for wine, though she doubted it would do much to calm her nerves. She sipped slowly, her thoughts scattered. She glanced at Ethan out of the corner of her eye, noting the way he stared at the seatback in front of him, his brow furrowed in thought.

Finally, he broke the silence. “You know, I didn’t expect to see you again.”

She turned to him, her green eyes searching his face. His expression was open now, almost unguarded. “Neither did I,” she admitted.

His gaze lingered on her before he looked away. “Life’s strange, isn’t it? How it brings people back together.”

“Strange,” she echoed, though her voice carried no humor.

The rest of the flight passed in fits and starts—a few half-hearted exchanges, long stretches of silence. When the plane finally began its descent, Amelia felt a mixture of relief and apprehension. The faint scent of jasmine drifted through the cabin, likely from a flight attendant’s perfume, and it stirred something inside her—memories of Paris, of the bridges and streets she’d once walked hand in hand with Ethan. The city waited below, its streets and stories beckoning. But now, it wasn’t just the city she had to face.

As the wheels touched down, she stole one last glance at Ethan. His expression was unreadable, but there was a softness in his eyes that made her chest ache.

“Welcome to Paris,” the flight attendant announced, bright and cheerful.

Amelia wasn’t sure if she felt welcomed—or if she was ready for what lay ahead.