Page 17

I bite back my disdain for that word. Toward the end, she didn’t want to leave our home.

She deemed every dining establishment too fancy.

I didn’t pick high-end locations to impress others, as she assumed.

I needed locations that could ensure privacy.

A small hole-in-the-wall diner isn’t set up to block unwanted media attention.

I tried explaining it to her, but it eventually became a silent argument, one we carried on in our heads and communicated with cold looks and physical distance.

A light on her phone flashes. She flips it to read the incoming text.

Luke:

When will?—

She clutches the phone and hurries down the hall before I can finish reading the message. Luke .

She said she wasn’t dating anyone. But my gut says he’s inquiring about her flight home. He’s probably picking her up from the airport.

Is he her reason for showing up? Does she think I’m less likely to sign the divorce agreement if I believe she’s got someone else in her life?

I check news alerts while drinking fresh coffee and eating another slice of toast. Bloomberg highlights Zenith’s latest orbital deployment, and there’s chatter about Bedrock’s potential acquisition in Singapore.

Asian and European markets are up, and US futures are looking stable.

I should care more—the Asian markets are particularly volatile this quarter—but with Caroline here, the satellite trajectories and market indicators blur together.

Dad would say I’m getting soft, not being on three conference calls by now. Business never sleeps—there’s always another deal to be made, another data stream to monitor. But for once, business can wait.

I force myself to finish the toast. I’m not hungry, but I’m physically weak, and experience taught me that my body responds poorly when I ignore it.

When I descend the stairs after showering, she’s dressed, suitcase at her side, phone in hand.

Her belted white cotton shirt sits above tapered black slacks that fall to yesterday’s professional black heels.

Her signature straight, long blonde hair reflects the light, emphasizing her natural elegance.

A light pink shade adorns her lips and cheeks, but when she lifts those sky blue eyes, my periphery dims as she becomes everything.

“You look beautiful,” I say, scratching my neck.

I check my phone, as much out of habit as to refocus. A text awaits. The helicopter is ready.

“Would you like a coffee to go?” I open a cabinet door, not waiting for her reply, using the same decisive efficiency I use when running board meetings, but here, it feels hollow. Strange how negotiating contracts feels easier than making coffee for my wife. Ex-wife.

I could tell her about the new communications satellite array or the emerging markets we’re targeting. Instead, I’m counting the minutes until she asks for the divorce papers again. Some things even an Oxford education doesn’t prepare you for.

“That’d be great.”

I can feel her behind my back, watching me as I prepare our Yetis.

It’s hard to believe this used to be our routine every morning.

I’d like to believe the stilted silence is new, but on that point, I can’t lie to myself.

Quiet distance was our norm at the end. She wasn’t happy with me, and I’d been helpless. I hate that word. And the feeling.

“Do you think we could stop by to say hello to your father before I leave? You said he’s home, right?”

“He’ll be working.”

I turn to give her the to-go stainless steel mug and force my most cordial and apologetic expression.

“No retirement for him, huh?” She says it with a smile, a joke.

I could respond with something trite, like there’s no rest for the wicked.

“I had a lawyer draft an agreement.”

It’s almost cute how she drops the contentious word from that sentence, as if by not uttering the word divorce will keep the conversation light.

“I have been maintaining the land I inherited and paying taxes on it. I assume you won’t fight me for it now?”

I give a short nod. I never planned on taking the land she inherited during our marriage. I’d been pissed when I demanded my share, and I suppose the tactic worked. Or, no, it delayed the inevitable. I should’ve put this behind me seven years ago.

“Helicopter’s ready,” I say, and she hesitates.

Does she want to stay longer? We said we would talk, but we haven’t. Not really. “That’s what you wanted, right?” Her gaze drops. My chest expands. “If you?—”

“No, no,” she says with far too much energy. “I need to get back.”

Yes, Luke is asking.

I deflate with the weight of reality. All of this is expected. I shouldn’t be reacting to anticipated events.

The ride to the helipad is quiet. She compliments me on the shower pressure and repeats that she likes the house.

She’s probably forgotten, but we had several conversations about the house we would eventually build here.

The land is remote, far away from the hordes.

Yet should we wish to go skiing, we can either have a driver take us or fly closer to the mountains.

The land is largely untouched, natural, and wild. Unlike us.

She asks me about business, but my heart is not in the conversation. I prefer screaming matches to surface conversations with Caroline. Not that we had many scream fests. Silence was our weapon of choice.

In the helicopter, under Caroline’s watchful eye, I perform the perfunctory routine with precision.

“You fly every day?”

“Weekdays.”

“So it’s no longer for pleasure? It’s utilitarian?”

I grit my teeth. It’s amazing, really. She can find anything, anything at all, to turn into a dig.

Flying was originally a hobby, yes, but in my world, everything eventually becomes an asset.

Like how my satellite company started as a fascination with space and ended up controlling most of the world’s digital infrastructure.

But trying to explain the intersection of passion and practicality to Caroline always ended in silence.

“Sometimes a pilot flies me. When I fly, it’s because I enjoy it.”

I’m defensive, but she’s critical. That’s the problem. With Caroline, I can do nothing right.

It’s tempting to tell her the communication feature on our headphones isn’t working, but she’ll see through it.

I speak into the mic, “Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

The rotors come to life, whipping the air above us.

We lift, and I adjust, evening us out as we climb above the tree line.

“That’s the big house, right?”

The big house. That’s what she’d always called my father’s mountain home.

“Yes.” I circle it once. “You can see he added a screened-in porch off his bedroom. And an outdoor pool.”

“Is that practical?”

“It looks more like a pond. Salt water.”

“In-ground?”

“Yes. But he does things to it over the winter.”

“He does things to it?”

I side-eye her, and she laughs.

“You mean he hires a pool company to take care of it?”

“Yes.”

As we come around the side, Geoffrey comes into view, standing beside his sedan parked in the carport by the garage, with a phone pressed to his ear. He’s got one hand over his eyes, no doubt wondering why my helicopter is circling Dad’s house.

I’d wave, but he likely wouldn’t see me. Instead, I head off to Denver.

“It’s funny,” Caroline says.

“What?”

“Your father conducts business from the wilds of Colorado, and businessmen still show up in ties and suits.”

She doesn’t know the half of it.

“Geoffrey always wears a suit.”

“It’s very New York.”

“I suppose.” The same cultural shorthand I learned while navigating between Oxford seminars and Brown’s trading club—how clothing becomes armor in the world of high finance.

The suit is modern chainmail. “Wall Street pedigree. Goldman Sachs. He’s a financial advisor.

Works closely with Dad.” Though “advisor” barely scratches the surface of Geoffrey’s role in the Moore empire.

“Is he from New York?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure where he was born. Lived in the city for a long time. I don’t remember the last time I had a casual conversation with Geoffrey. We have a professional relationship.”

“Your father brings that out in people. He’s ninety-two and living in the middle of nowhere, and I bet he still wears cufflinks and ties daily. The most expensive, finest custom suits, the best of everything.”

“You would know, right?”

I shouldn’t have said that. I sound like an asshole.

She’ll hear it as me criticizing her outfit or digging into an old wound.

Her clothing choices are a sore subject.

When we were engaged, Dad disapproved of her outfit at a charity event, and he insisted he approve her garment choices for every event leading up to our wedding.

Even though the dispute was between the two of them, her outfit choice became one more land mine I stepped on more times than I can count.

A sincere comment about how beautiful she looked either earned a glare or questions about whether or not she should change.

She scowls, probably remembering those disagreements.

But she’s the one who brought up Dad’s wardrobe, and she’s dressed for business, too. “Is that why you dressed like that?”

“Like what?”

“Professionally.” She’s not any different than Geoffrey. She woke this morning, and instead of jeans and her running shoes, she’s back in a pantsuit with low square heels.

A red light flashes on the board.

“I bet you still dress in suits to meet your father.”

That’s a dig. She disapproves. But, if we’re going to fight, it won’t be over fashion.

“Do you smell that?”

I inhale deeply. If she’s implying I farted…

It’s a burning odor. Oil. The smell is faint.

The master caution light illuminates. A loud alarm blares.

My mind shifts instantly to the countless simulation hours, the rigorous aviation training that was as much about crisis management as actual flying.

Seven figures worth of aircraft, and somehow I’m more concerned about Caroline’s grip on the armrest than the hydraulic failure warnings.

“What’s HYD?” Caroline asks the second the hydraulic warning light flashes on the multifunction display.

I scan the terrain with the same precision I use reviewing satellite coverage maps. The topographical features I usually observe from space are now critical landing zones. There’s a break in the trees. A stream.

“What’s going on, Dorian?”

“It’s going to be okay. I need you to hold on. Stay calm.”

I flick to contact air traffic control.

“Mayday, mayday, mayday. This is Hotel Echo One Two Three, Airbus H160 helicopter.”

There’s a crackle. Caroline white-knuckles the edge of the seat. This is it. She’ll never fly in a helicopter again. Took me a year to convince her to go up in one.

A deep male voice responds, “Hotel Echo One Two Three, this is Telluride tower. Go ahead with your mayday.”

“Tower, Hotel Echo One Two Three. We have a critical hydraulic system failure.” My voice stays steady—the same tone I use while announcing disappointing quarterly results or explaining orbital trajectory modifications to investors.

But this isn’t about market corrections or satellite adjustments. This is Caroline’s life. Our lives.

“Suspect contaminated fluid. Controls becoming unresponsive. Requesting immediate emergency landing clearance.”

I scan for landing zones as if analyzing market opportunities—quickly, systematically, weighing every variable.

The stream offers better visibility, but the clearing provides more control surface options.

These split-second decisions feel familiar—like choosing satellite positions or timing market entries—except now, Caroline’s white-knuckled grip on the seat reminds me this isn’t just another business calculation.

“Unresponsive? Your controls aren’t working?”

“Caroline…I need to concentrate.”

The vibrations increase.

“Roger, Hotel Echo One Two Three. Understood you have hydraulic failure. What are your intentions?”

“Tower, I’m attempting to maintain control. Need to land immediately. Current position is 38.2627 North, 108.1103 West. Descending through 5,500 feet. Request any nearby clear areas for emergency landing.”

“Hotel Echo One Two Three, understood. There’s a clearing about two miles southeast of your position. Can you make it there?”

“Affirmative, Tower. Attempting to reach the clearing. Be advised, control is deteriorating rapidly. May not make a controlled landing.”

“Roger that, Hotel Echo One Two Three. Emergency services have been notified and are en route to the clearing. Do you have any souls on board and fuel remaining?”

“Tower, we have two souls on board and approximately”— Fuck— “three minutes of fuel remaining. Be advised, vibrations increasing. Situation is critical. I see a clearing. I’m taking it.”

“Understood, Hotel Echo One Two Three. Keep us informed of your status.”

“Wilco, Tower. Commencing final approach to clearing. Will advise on touchdown?—”

“Dorian?”

The nose dives precariously.

“Oh my god.”

I grit my teeth and block Caroline’s cries.

Which will be a better landing pad? Boulders or water?

“Dorian!”

“Hold on!”