Page 78 of Mistletoe and Mayday

“Ican’t disclose employee schedules, Mr. Lockhart.” The cargo company receptionist taps her pen against the desk. “Though I hear the view from the Space Needle is beautiful this time of year. Something about the winter light.”

My pulse spikes. Five airports. Countless dead-end conversations. And now—finally—a thread to pull.

“I understand,” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Privacy policies are important.”

She glances over her shoulder and lowers her voice. “I didn’t tell you anything, of course.”

“Of course not.”

“Good luck,” she calls after me. “Whatever you’re chasing—must be worth it.”

“She is,” I say, the truest words I’ve spoken in my life.

My phone vibrates again. Mother, calling for the twelfth time today. I silence it without looking, an act of rebellion thatwould have been unthinkable a few weeks ago. The snow globes in my briefcase rattle against each other as I pivot, nearly colliding with an elderly couple examining the departure board.

“Sorry,” I mutter, steadying the man by his elbow. His tweed jacket feels rough beneath my fingers.

His wife peers up at me, recognition sparking in her eyes. “You’re that CEO, aren’t you? From the news? The one who survived?—”

I don’t stop, already pushing through the terminal doors, pulse thundering in my ears. Another call. Father, this time. I power off the phone, severing the last tether to my old life.

I’ve called Bailey sixteen times since I left my parents at that dining table. Each attempt goes straight to voicemail. Each message more desperate than the last.

“Bailey, please call me back.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Bailey, I messed up. I know I messed up.”

The last one, left at 3 AM when sleep wouldn’t come.

“I miss your voice. Even when you’re talking about snow globe glitter density or making explosion sounds or telling me my tie is too tight. I miss all of it. I miss you.”

No response. Just silence. The one thing Bailey Monroe never gave me before.

I check the Seattle board, calculating. Flight departing in forty minutes.

The snow globes I’ve been buying at every stop clatter in my briefcase. Five so far, one for each airport I’ve searched. It started as an impulse in Chicago, passing that tacky touristshop I would have sneered at two weeks ago. Now it’s become a ritual, a promise, a prayer.

Bailey’s number sits at the top of my contacts, though calling is pointless. I stare at her name on the screen, tracing the letters with my eyes. Six letters that somehow define everything I never knew I wanted.

The departure gate for Seattle looms on the other side of the terminal with only forty minutes to go. Of course it does.

I run. Sebastian Lockhart, CEO,runningthrough an airport. My shoes skid on the waxed floor as I take a corner too fast.

Thirty-five minutes to departure.

“Excuse me,” I mutter, weaving through a tour group, their matching red caps blurring as I pass. “Sorry. Pardon me.”

The gate comes into view. Boarding is already in progress, passengers lining up with tickets and IDs in hand. My lungs burn from the sprint, but panic rises in my chest. I’m too late.

I rush to the counter, ignoring the queue. “I need a ticket on this flight.”

The gate agent looks up, startled. “Sir?”

She taps her keyboard, frowning at the screen. “I’m sorry, Sir. The flight is full. We’re boarding our final passengers now.”

“Please.” I grip the counter, past caring about appearances. “You don’t understand. I messed up. I messed up so badly.”