The flight attendant, because of course this plane has its own flight attendant, approaches with a tray of drinks. "Water, Ms. Calloway? Or perhaps something stronger?"
"Water is fine," I manage, my throat suddenly dry. The crystal tumbler she hands me catches the light, refracting it in tiny rainbows across the table.
My mind drifts to the last time I was on a plane, fourteen months ago. Poppy was just weeks old, strapped to my chest as I fled Oregon with nothing but a backpack and terror pulsing through my veins. The cramped economy seat, the suspicious looks from other passengers when Poppy cried, the constant fear that Elliot would somehow stop the flight before takeoff.
Now here I am, returning on a private jet worth more than I'll earn in a lifetime. With a man I barely know but somehow trust with my life, with my daughter's life.
"You're thinking too hard," Axel says, his thumb tracing small circles on my thigh.
"That's my default setting."
His smile is brief but genuine. "I know that too."
The plane hits a pocket of turbulence, a quick drop that makes my stomach lurch. My hand grips the armrest until my knuckles turn white. Axel covers my hand with his, steady and warm.
"Normal," he says simply. "Just air currents."
I nod, trying to relax my grip, but my body won't cooperate. Every muscle remains tense, braced for impact. Not just from the plane, but from everything waiting for us in Oregon. From Elliot. From the courts. From the possibility that I might lose everything.
"Hungry?" Axel asks, gesturing to the flight attendant who hovers discreetly nearby. "Kitchen's fully stocked. Anything you want."
The thought of food makes my stomach turn. "I couldn't eat."
"You need to try. For strength."
He's right, of course. I need to be at my best when we land. Clearheaded. Strong. Not running on fumes and fear.
"Maybe some toast," I concede.
Axel speaks quietly to the attendant, who disappears toward the back of the plane. I check on Poppy again, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she sleeps. So innocent. So unaware of what's at stake.
"She's safe," Axel says, following my gaze. "You both are."
I turn to him, studying his profile in the clear morning light streaming through the windows. He looks completely at ease in this environment, the private jet, the staff, the luxury. It's his world, not mine. I'm just visiting, a temporary guest in a life I can barely comprehend.
"How often do you do this?" I ask. "The private jet thing."
"Not often. Family trips sometimes. Business occasionally." He shrugs, the gesture casual. "I prefer driving, actually. More control."
I understand that sentiment completely. In a car, you can change direction. Stop. Pull over. In a plane, you're committed to the path, helpless until you reach your destination.
The attendant returns with a small tray, toast, butter, jam, and a cup of tea that smells like chamomile. She sets it before me with practiced grace.
"Thank you," I murmur, surprised by the quality of service even in this small detail. The bread is artisanal, the butter in a tiny porcelain dish, the jam clearly homemade.
"Just press the call button if you need anything else," she says before retreating to her station at the back of the cabin.
Axel watches as I pick up a piece of toast and spread a thin layer of butter across it. His attention to these small actions should feel intrusive, but somehow it doesn't. It feels like care.
"You're good at this," I say, taking a small bite.
"At what?"
"Taking care of people. Making them feel… secure."
His smile is crooked, almost self-deprecating. "Not historically my reputation, but I'll take it."
I know what he means. I've heard enough from the town gossip to understand that Axel Slade is known for fun, not stability. For good times, not serious commitment. The man sitting beside me, intensely focused, fiercely protective, completely reliable, seems like someone else entirely. Or maybe this is who he always was beneath the carefree exterior. The real Axel, revealed only in crisis.
