Going back to London isn’t just a journey across continents; it’s like voluntarily reopening Pandora’s box. Inside wait memories I’ve deliberately locked away, emotions preserved in perfect, painful clarity: my mother’s disapproving sighs when I failed to meet her exacting standards before her illness stole her away; Nathan’s betrayed expression the summer I was sent to a boarding school and everything had changed between us.
Nathan—my childhood confidant, the keeper of my secrets, the shoulder dampened by my frustrated tears when Father’s political ambitions once again took precedence over me even after mom’s death. Just thinking about him makes my chest constrict painfully, a sob building behind my ribs. I suck in a desperate breath, the recycled airplane air tasting stale and inadequate as I squeeze my eyes shut so tightly that kaleidoscopic patterns dance behind my eyelids. I will not cry. Not here. Not now. I force the memories back into their compartments, slamming the mental drawers shut with practiced efficiency.
I don’t understand why this summons couldn’t have been delivered through any of the countless technological options available. A Zoom call. A detailed email. Hell, even a formal letter would have shown more consideration than having his assistant book me on the next available flight without consultation. Instead, here I am, strapped into seat 24B, reduced once again to the dutiful daughter dancing on command when Lucas Barlow snaps his fingers. My fingernails drum an agitated rhythm against the plastic armrest, each tap punctuating a new, increasingly worrying theory about what could be so urgent. Political scandal? Health crisis? Another arranged career opportunity I’m expected to gratefully accept?
Focus, Isabel. The command in my internal voice sounds distressingly like him. I exhale slowly, consciously relaxing my shoulders from where they’ve crept up toward my ears. I don’t want to poison these hours with catastrophizing. Whatever awaits in London will find me soon enough.
When the plane finally lurches into motion and begins its ascent, I notice the seat beside me remains conspicuously empty—strange, considering Dad’s assistant specifically mentioned a fully booked flight when explaining why only first class was available on such short notice. I suspect manipulation; Lucas Barlow’s influence extends to airline seating charts when it suits his purposes.
Shrugging away the suspicion—one more mind game in an endless series—I balance my laptop on the tray table, log into Spotify, and immerse myself in Dad’s upcoming speech. The irony doesn’t escape me: even thousands of miles away, I’ve been crafting his public persona, polishing his words until they shine with conviction I know he doesn’t possess. Sometimes I wonder why he insists on using me as his unofficial PR consultant when he has an entire communications team at his disposal. Is it simply another method of control, another invisible leash ensuring I remain tethered to his world even when physically distant?
I order a glass of Chardonnay from a passing flight attendant, the first sip sharp and acidic against my tongue as I begin adding rhetorical flourishes to make his environmental policy stance sound sincere rather than politically expedient. My concentration shatters when a scent cuts through the airplane’s sterile atmosphere—an intoxicating blend of sandalwood, cedar, and something indefinably masculine. I inhale shamelessly, my work forgotten as the fragrance wraps around me like velvet.
Damn, this smells so good. The thought rises unbidden, primitive and honest in a way I rarely allow myself to be.
I permit myself a sidelong glance and immediately regret it—or perhaps regret is exactly the wrong word for the sudden rush of heat flooding my system. The man now occupying the formerly empty seat is nothing short of devastating. His white shirt, casually rolled at the sleeves, reveals forearms corded with lean muscle and adorned with intricate tattoos that curve out of sight beneath the fabric. His jawline could cut glass, shadowed with precisely the right amount of stubble, and his dark hair falls just so across his forehead in a way that seems both effortless and calculated for maximum impact.
As if sensing my scrutiny, his eyes open—revealing irises so intensely blue they seem almost artificially enhanced. Our gazes lock for a fraction of a second that somehow stretches into infinity. Nina Simone’s husky voice fills my headphones, crooning “I Put a Spell on You,” and I can’t suppress a wry smile at the universe’s perfect timing. This scent is indeed a spell, weaving through my senses and short-circuiting my usually impeccable self-control. Again, I steal another glance at the hotter-than-hell stranger beside me, and my body responds with embarrassing enthusiasm. Goosebumps cascade across my skin like dominoes falling in sequence, and heat pools low in my belly, a sensation I haven’t experienced in longer than I care to admit.
I drain my wine in one undignified gulp, desperately seeking relief from the sudden temperature spike in my personal atmosphere. The cool liquid does nothing to extinguish the warmth spreading through me. I signal for another glass, acutely aware of the stranger’s presence beside me, like a gravitational force altering my orbit without permission.
My life moves at a relentless pace—client meetings bleeding into court appearances, research sessions stretching until dawn, and Dad’s political demands filling whatever microscopic gaps remain. The mere concept of a relationship seems as realistic as sprouting wings and flying alongside this plane. And after what happened with James two years ago—the betrayal still a raw, throbbing wound beneath my carefully constructed professional veneer—I’ve kept men at a clinical distance, viewing them as I might examine legal precedents: with detached interest and healthy skepticism.
But something about this stranger breaks through my carefully constructed defenses with terrifying ease. It’s not just his obscene physical perfection—though God knows that would be enough—it’s something more primal, an electric current humming between us that makes the fine hairs on my arms stand at attention. The logical part of my brain—the part that graduated top of my class and negotiates settlements that make seasoned attorneys fidget—screams warnings about airplane infatuations and the dangers of mistaking proximity for chemistry. It’s the wine. Yeah, I blame it.
I attempt to maintain some semblance of dignity while stealing glances that grow increasingly less subtle. My eyes trace the constellation of veins visible beneath the skin of his forearms, the way his throat moves when he swallows, the slight curve of his mouth that suggests he’s perpetually on the verge of a knowing smile. Heat crawls up my neck and settles in my cheeks, and I’m suddenly grateful for the dim cabin lighting that conceals what must be a mortifying flush. My imagination runs wild with forbidden scenarios—his hands tangled in my hair, those full lips exploring places that haven’t been touched in embarrassingly long.
When Spotify’s algorithm shifts from Nina Simone to something more upbeat, the spell fractures just enough for me to surface from my hormone-induced trance. Shit! I blink rapidly, as if emerging from a darkened theater into harsh daylight, and force my attention back to the glowing laptop screen where Dad’s half-finished speech waits accusingly. The words swim before my eyes, refusing to arrange themselves into coherent sentences as my peripheral vision stubbornly registers every minute movement from seat 24A.
This flight stretches ahead of me like an eternity—twenty two more hours trapped in this pressurized tube beside living, breathing temptation. I’ll need to summon every ounce of self-discipline cultivated during years of Barlow family media training not to make a complete fool of myself. I take another sip of wine, hoping it might dull the keen edge of awareness that has my body humming like a tuning fork struck against stone.
Since when have I become this person—this bundle of raw nerves and inappropriate cravings? Years of casual dates that never progressed beyond lukewarm goodnight kisses, of throwing myself into work rather than risk another emotional laceration, and suddenly one stranger’s cologne has me contemplating bathroom trysts at thirty-five thousand feet? I mentally shake myself, disgusted and thrilled in equal measure by my body’s mutiny against common sense. Melbourne has changed me in ways I’m only beginning to comprehend, loosened something tightly wound within me—something that London and the weight of Barlow’s expectations had nearly suffocated entirely.
I force my fingers to move across the keyboard, determined to reclaim control of my treacherous body and wandering mind. The speech. Focus on the speech. Not on the way his presence beside me seems to alter the very air pressure in the cabin, making each breath feel insufficient and laden with dangerous possibilities.
Chapter 2
Nate
When I first get on my seat, I can’t help but scan the cabin—old habits die hard. The steward approaches with that practiced smile. “Mr. Weister, sir. There’s a phone call for you.” I feel my shoulders tense immediately. Just one goddamn flight without interruption, is that too much to ask? Work already consumes most of my life, and these rare moments of freedom are precious. I travel to escape, to breathe, to remember I’m more than just a uniform and a set of orders. But apparently Dad needs me, so coming home feels like another assignment rather than a choice. Every time he snaps his fingers, I find myself responding like that obedient little boy I used to be. It’s been this way for as long as I can remember, and at twenty-nine, I still wonder if I’ll ever break the pattern. I’m not a child anymore, for fuck’s sake.
“I’ll take it in a few minutes,” I tell the steward, not bothering to hide the irritation in my voice. He nods and retreats, probably used to dealing with grumpy passengers. I stow my bag overhead, noticing how even this simple action follows the precise movements drilled into me through years of service. Fold, tuck, secure. My life in three words.
As a kid, I was all boundless energy and wild impulses—always running, climbing, questioning everything. My commanding officer now calls it ‘natural leadership’ and ‘healthy initiative.’ Dad called it ‘disruptive’ and ‘unseemly.’ I wasn’t allowed the luxury of being just a kid; I was the Duke’s son before I was ever Nate. I needed to be calm, controlled, a perfect miniature gentleman at eight years old. Never messy, never loud, never wrong. I still hear Dad’s voice in my quiet moments: “The Dukes of Weister have a millennium-long reputation and surely, it will be passed down. You must learn your place.” The memory makes my throat tight, my hands clenching involuntarily.
I understand his obsession on some level. The press has always circled our family like vultures, waiting for any misstep to splash across the tabloids. But understanding doesn’t ease the resentment that still burns inside me when I think about what I missed. I wanted a normal childhood—skinned knees from falling off bikes, dirt under my fingernails from climbing trees, the simple joy of making mischief without it becoming a family crisis. Those small freedoms that make childhood what it’s supposed to be. My memories of those years feel more like formal photographs than lived experiences, and almost none include my parents’ faces. The realization still comes down like a physical blow, my jaw clenching against emotions I was taught never to show.
I’ve spent too many sleepless nights wondering why they had me at all. The conclusion I always reach is painfully simple: they needed an heir, a continuation of the bloodline, someone to inherit the title and estates. Nothing more personal than that. Sometimes I felt like a ghost in my own home, moving through rooms where no one actually saw me. That feeling of invisibility still haunts me— the sense of being hollowed out over time, until I’m nothing more than a name on the family tree. Only two people made me feel real: Nanny Alice with her endless patience and homemade cookies and delicious cakes, and Izzy.
God, Izzy. The thought of her sends a familiar ache through my chest. Somehow she saw past everything—the title, the wealth, the carefully constructed facade—to the angry, lonely boy underneath. Unlike everyone else in our world of privilege and pretense, Izzy never wanted anything from me except friendship. She looked at the world with a clarity I envied, cutting through bullshit with a few well-chosen words while I was still learning to control my temper. It’s been more than fifteen years since we really talked, since that summer when everything fell apart, but thinking about her still does something to me—quickens my pulse, makes me more aware of myself than I want to be.
I take a deep breath, the kind I use before difficult conversations with subordinates or when breaking bad news to families. My hand raises to signal for whiskey—no ice, double—and I turn to the window, watching clouds pass beneath us. There’s irony in how I was pushed from one rigid structure only to find myself into another. The military gave me purpose, clarity, brotherhood—all things missing from the cold halls of Weister Manor. The difference is that even though I haven’t chosen this life, I earned my place in it through sweat and blood rather than birth.
The whiskey arrives, and I drink it in one go, welcoming the burn that momentarily drowns out thoughts of home. Whatever crisis has prompted this summons, I’ll deal with it the way I’ve learned to handle everything: head-on, with as much honesty as I can muster,, then I’ll get the hell out before the Duke remembers all the ways I’ve disappointed him. Three days max, then back to the vacation I planned for myself.
At least, that’s the plan. Family has a way of dragging you back into old patterns, old wounds. And I’ve never been very good at walking away from a fight.
Finally taking back my seat after that pointless phone call with Dad’s secretary—not even Dad himself, of course—I try to relax into the uncomfortable airline chair, but something keeps me on edge. The blonde next to me is the kind of distraction I’d normally welcome. Her fingers dance across her laptop keyboard with practiced precision, and I find myself wondering if she’s actually working or just putting on a show. Something about her seems vaguely familiar, though I can’t place it.
