POV Audrey
The airport terminal buzzes with Thursday morning chaos, but I've carved out a corner near the floor-to-ceiling windows where Seattle's gray skyline feels like a goodbye I'm not ready to give.
I press my phone to my ear, and Oliver's voice fills the hollow ache already forming in my chest.
"Mom, Mrs. Walker says I can't have ice cream for breakfast while you're gone, but I told her you'd want me to be happy, and ice cream makes me happy, so technically she's violating your parental wishes."
His logic is so perfectly earnest that I almost laugh.
"Also, my ankle is basically healed. I can probably do skateboard tricks by the time you get back."
"Absolutely not," I say, but there's no force behind it. "No skateboard tricks until the doctor clears you, and Mrs. Walker is right about the ice cream. But I'll be back in a couple of days, baby. I promise I'll miss you every single day I'm gone."
"That's only two days of missing. That's not very impressive."
"Fine. I'll miss you every single hour. Every single minute. I'll be so busy missing you that I won't have time for anything else, and Shane Reed will have to do all the investor presentations by himself while I sit in the corner thinking about my favorite person in the world."
Oliver giggles, and the sound loosens something tight behind my ribs. "Okay, that's better. But Mom, you have to bring me a gift. What gift are you bringing me from San Francisco?"
"What gift would you like?"
"Something from Chinatown. One of those little dragon statues that looks like it's guarding a castle. Jimmy Chen has one on his desk, and it's so cool, Mom. It has red eyes and everything."
I smile—the first real one in days. "A dragon with red eyes. I think I can manage that."
"Promise?"
"I promise, baby. Be good for Mrs. Walker. I love you."
"Love you too, Mom. Don't let the boring business stuff make you too grumpy."
The line goes dead, and I stand there for a moment, phone still pressed to my cheek, trying to memorize the sound of his voice.
"He sounds charming."
I spin to find Shane beside me, close enough that he must have caught the tail end of the conversation. His expression carries something I don't recognize—softer than his usual corporate mask, almost warm.
"Would you like me to say hello? I could introduce myself, start building some rapport before we—"
"No." The word comes out sharp enough to cut glass. I end the call I've already ended, a reflexive gesture that probably looks ridiculous. "Stay away from Oliver. Entirely. Whatever this arrangement is between us, he's not part of it. You don't speak to him, you don't ask about him, you don't even think about him. Do you understand me?"
Shane absorbs my hostility with an infuriating half-smile, his head tilting slightly as he studies my face. "You finally said his name. Out loud."
"That's what you took from what I just said?"
"Progress is progress, Audrey. I'll take my victories where I find them."
I don't react and we move to the business lounge. I wonder if I can endure this time until boarding with Shane without incident. Because the silence between us is suffocating me.
This place offers leather chairs and complimentary champagne, neither of which improves my mood.
Shane settles across from me with the easy confidence of a man who's never been uncomfortable anywhere, his long legs stretched out like he owns the space between us.
"You should try the croissants," he says, gesturing toward the buffet. "Reed Logistics has a standing account here, and the pastry chef trained in Paris. It would be a shame to waste the opportunity on spite alone."
"I'm not hungry."
"You're not hungry, or you're refusing to enjoy anything I might have provided? Because those are different problems with different solutions."
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, gray eyes dancing with something that looks dangerously like amusement.
"I'm trying to be friendly, Audrey. I realize that's unfamiliar territory for us, but I thought we might attempt civility before spending two hours trapped in a metal tube together."
"Civility."
I let the word drip with skepticism.
"Is that what you call it when you ambush someone with accelerated timelines and surprise trips? When you sit in silence while board members question my fitness to lead? Your version of civility needs recalibration, Shane."
"Fair point."
He doesn't flinch, doesn't defend himself.
"But you might recall that you spent our first dinner asking about chicken tenders and proposing we register at Costco. You wore fur in May and tried to destroy a gallery installation with your bare hands. Games recognize games, Audrey. I'm simply better at playing them quietly."
Heat rises to my cheeks before I can stop it. The memory of my sabotage attempts surfaces with uncomfortable clarity—every calculated outrage, every manufactured disaster, all of it transparent to a man I'd underestimated.
I look away, caught.
"Honesty looks good on you," Shane says softly. "You should try it more often."
* * *
The turbulence hits somewhere over Oregon, without warning or mercy.
The plane shudders like a living thing in pain, dropping suddenly before catching itself. My hands find the armrest with desperate force, knuckles going white as fear claws through every wall I've built.
Oliver. The thought crashes through me like the turbulence itself. Growing up without a father, now potentially losing his mother to the sky. Eight years old and already carrying the weight of questions I can't answer, and now—
"Audrey." Shane's voice cuts through my spiral, low and steady. "Look at me."
I can't. The plane drops again, and a sound escapes my throat that I'll deny later—something between a gasp and a whimper.
His hand covers my wrist. Not grabbing, not restraining—just resting there, warm and solid against my racing pulse.
"I've flown through worse over the Pacific," he says, dry humor lacing each word with unexpected gentleness. "Twice last year, actually. Both times I was convinced my lawyer had finally succeeded in killing me through stress, and both times the pilot landed without incident. These jets are designed by engineers who are considerably smarter than either of us, and statistically speaking, we're more likely to be struck by lightning while winning the lottery."
"That's not comforting," I manage through clenched teeth.
"Would you prefer comforting or accurate? Because I can do comforting, but it requires lying, and you've made it clear you have strong feelings about my honesty."
Something loosens in my chest against my will. His thumb moves slightly against my wrist—barely perceptible, probably unconscious—and I don't pull away.
The turbulence eases. The plane steadies. I keep breathing.
When the wheels finally touch the ground, I exhale my relief in a rush that empties my lungs completely. The tension drains from my shoulders, leaving behind exhaustion and something else I don't want to name.
When we arrive at the airport terminal, I am still trembling. Shane pulls me into a brief embrace before I can react. His arms are solid around me, his chin brushing the top of my head for just a moment.
"You did well," he murmurs against my hair. "That wasn't easy, and you handled it."
I should push him away. I should remind him about boundaries and business arrangements and all the reasons this marriage is a cage I never chose.
Instead, I stand there in his arms and let the sincerity in his voice unsettle me more than the turbulence ever could.