Page 98 of Mistletoe and Mayday

Mother’s sculpted eyebrows arch toward her hairline. “Excuse me?”

“I said no.” The syllable tastes revolutionary on my tongue. “I won’t apologize for bringing the woman I love to meet you. I won’t apologize for choosing happiness over appearances. And I certainly won’t apologize for living my life instead of the script you’ve written for me.”

“This is absurd,” Father interjects, folding his napkin with surgical precision. “You’re throwing away everything we’ve built for a?—”

“Careful,” I say. “Whatever you’re about to say, I suggest you reconsider.”

Bailey squeezes my hand, her touch grounding me. I draw strength from this woman who faced wilderness and wolves without hesitation, who navigates the sky with the same confidence I once reserved for boardrooms.

“Sebastian.” Mother switches tactics, her voice softening to that manipulative tone I’ve heard a thousand times. “You’ve always been impulsive beneath that controlled exterior. But this passing fancy?—”

“Fancy?” A laugh breaks free, startling in this room where laughter has always been measured and appropriate. “Mother, I’ve spent my entire life imprisoned by artifice. Obsessed with perfection. Consumed by being the flawlessLockhart heir.”

Mother’s smile tightens as Bailey shoots me a grateful glance. The silent war across my parents’ formal dining table has escalated through three courses, with Bailey as the unwitting battlefield.

The tension stretches between us, thick enough to cut with one of Mother’s imported silver knives.

Father clears his throat, attempting to navigate us back to safer conversational waters.

“So, Sebastian tells us you...fly cargo?”

“Yes, sir,” Bailey answers, her voice taking on that bright, brave quality I’ve come to recognize. “Last month, I transported a shipment of exotic reptiles. One escaped in the cockpit—a baby python. Had to land one-handed while holding it behind the head.”

Father’s knife pauses midway through his filet mignon. Mother’s practiced smile freezes in place.

“How... resourceful,” Mother manages, signaling the server to refill her wine glass for the third time since the appetizer.

I slide my hand over Bailey’s knee beneath the table, squeezing. She’s been trying so hard—wearing the blue dress she bought specially for tonight, researching proper etiquette, practicing small talk. All while my parents set subtle traps and exchange meaningful glances that might as well be spoken insults.

Bailey’s hand slips from mine, and I turn to see her eyes shimmering.

“Excuse me,” she whispers, “I’ll be outside. Just need a minute.”

The look in her eyes stops me from following. She needs space, and I respect it rather than trying to control the situation as I would have before meeting her.

I watch her walk away, steps measured and dignifieddespite everything. The dining-room door closes with a soft click that somehow echoes louder than any slam.

“Well,” Mother says into the silence, dabbing her lips, “I suppose that demonstrates my point.”

My hands curl into fists. Bailey would have the perfect comeback—something inappropriate yet devastatingly accurate about Mother’s condescension or Father’s disdain.

“Really, Sebastian,” Mother continues, voice dripping with superiority, “surely you see she’s after your position. The tabloids are already questioning your...judgment.”

The crystal glass trembles in my grip.

“Enough.” My voice emerges, stripped of its practiced polish. “You don’t get to judge her while she stands outside being braver than anyone at this table.”

“Sebastian—” Father says with that warning tone.

“No.” I push back from the table, chair scraping against imported marble. “You either accept her, or you lose me. It’s that simple.”

Mother gasps.

“I won’t choose between Bailey and family. If you can’t accept her, then I’m done with all of this.”

“You don’t mean that,” Mother whispers, clutching her pearls.

“Watch me.”