My husband.
From time to time, I still like to turn around the title in my head when the world is quiet. It fits him.
I still work for Mick Flint, which surprises absolutely no one. What does surprise people is how easily my husband and my boss get along. Mick and Zane have settled into something that looks suspiciously like friendship, born somewhere between long flights, shared silences, and mutual respect.
Zane took over as Mick’s personal pilot last year, and since then, our lives have fallen into an easy rhythm that moves between cities and time zones. My husband is more grounded in the sky than I’ve ever seen him anywhere else. I’ll forever be grateful to my boss for giving my husband his wings back.
The biggest difference is that I don’t stay behind anymore.
If Zane flies, I go with him.
Mick pretends to grumble about it, but he never actually objects. In fact, I think he likes having me close, likes knowing things are handled before they become problems across time zones. It makes his life smoother. Predictable. After working for him as long as I have, I know that’s what he values most.
We’re in New York now. The city feels different when you know it well enough to stop being impressed by it. The noise fades into the background and the skyline becomes familiar. Comforting, even.
It’s Valentine’s Day, but my husband is nowhere in sight. He flew Mick to Boston early this morning for a last-minute meeting—last-minute being the phrase Mick used when he apologized to me in that careful way he reserves for people he genuinely doesn’t want to upset. I’d been irritated, mostly on principle. I’m his scheduling assistant. I’m supposed to know these things. Mick swore Zane would be back in time for dinner.
“He made me promise,” Mick said, holding up a hand like an oath. “And I value my life.”
That made me laugh despite myself.
Zane and I consider Valentine’s Day our anniversary. Not the day we met. Not the day we married. But the day everything finally came into the open. The day we chose light.
I stand up from the bed and walk toward the window of our hotel suite, staring out at the shimmering city lights. I glance at my phone, face down on the table behind me.
Still no call. No text.
I let out a soft sigh. I’m bored and restless.
Maybe a stroll through the city will help.
I turn away from the window, throw on my coat, grab my bag, and head out before I can change my mind.
Outside, I hail a taxi and ask the driver to take me to the East Village. The moment I get out of the taxi, I know I made the right decision.
The street is busy—enough to keep me entertained. I wander without a plan, drifting from boutique to boutique, letting myself touch fabrics, flip through hangers, linger where I want.
But as I move around, I can’t help but feel the familiar sensation of being watched…followed.
I shake it off at first, but the feeling doesn’t fade. If anything, it intensifies, like the air before a storm or the pause before someone says your name.
I walk into one small shop by the road. It’s warm and crowded with mirrors and people.
Perfect.
I pick up a dress without thinking too hard about it. A dark fabric with simple lines and cuts.
“I’ll try it,” I tell the woman at the counter and head to the changing room.
The room is narrow and private, tucked down a short hallway. I step inside and pull the curtain closed and start to undress. I’m reaching for the zipper on my dress when I sense the presence of someone behind me.
I don’t turn right away. I don’t have to.
His scent reaches me first—clean, familiar, unmistakable. The kind of presence you don’t question because your body already knows the answer.
“You took your sweet time, little mouse,” Zane murmurs close to my ear.
I smile.
