Chapter 1

Skylar 

Mornings have a rhythm, a dance I’ve perfected through repetition and sheer necessity. The alarm screams at exactly 5:45 a.m., pulling me from a vague, unsettling dream I never fully remember, leaving only a lingering ache behind my ribs. It’s always something gentle, beautiful—and impossible. Something that evaporates like morning mist the moment I open my eyes, leaving behind only the shadow of longing.

Sliding reluctantly out of bed, I feel the cool bite of hardwood beneath my toes as I slip quietly down the short hall. Every morning, no matter how rushed or chaotic, starts the same way. I ease Nova’s bedroom door open just enough to peek inside.

She’s still asleep, curled around the stuffed bear Beckett unknowingly gifts her—though he never knows it. Her small limbs stretch across the sheets, tiny mouth parted, breathing softly. My heart squeezes every single time I look at her. Four years in, and the sheer wonder of having her never wears off. It’s grown stronger, deeper, threaded with quiet anxiety that somehow, I’ll let her down.

I kneel beside the bed, smoothing the riot of soft curls framing her face. My voice is a gentle murmur in the quiet darkness. “Good morning, my little star.”

Nova shifts slightly, long lashes fluttering, before she opens her sleepy eyes. They’re luminous, rich brown flecked with gold, eyes that mirror mine but hold that unmistakable trace of Beckett’s playful mischief. Eyes that always threaten to unravel the careful knots I tie around my heart.

“Mama,” Nova mumbles, voice thick with sleep. “Is today the day? Do I really get to go to the clouds with you?”

My chest lightens, the usual morning guilt of leaving her behind evaporates, the spark in her eyes sparking a matching one in mine. I nod softly, brushing a stray curl from her forehead. 'It is, baby girl. You and Grandma are coming to the airport with me. You’ll be sitting in the back while Mama works, but we’re all going to the same place today."

Her brows knit briefly, her small face brightens as the realization of a shared adventure takes place. "And I get to see the big silver wings from the window? For real?"

I hold out my pinky solemnly, our familiar ritual sealing my word. “Pinky promise.”

She smiles sleepily, curling back into the warmth of her sheets. My heart splinters a little. I rise quietly, stepping back into the hallway. This is the life I built for us—safe, independent, predictable. Yet some mornings, like today, it feels insufficient. Fragile, even.

Returning to my room, I slip on my flight attendant uniform with practiced efficiency. Navy blazer crisp and flawless, the skirt tailored precisely to flatter without betraying vulnerability. My hair twists neatly into a sleek bun beneath my flight cap. The final touch is always the red lipstick—matte, bold, armor against the world. The woman in the mirror is confident, poised, ready. I perfect her  over years of practice, hiding every crack beneath a surface of polished steel.

Downstairs, the kitchen hums gently with morning life. Coffee brews quietly as I arrange Nova’s favorite breakfast—blueberry muffins and strawberries. This small act anchors me, grounding the swirl of anxiety that accompanies every flight I leave her behind. The door opens softly, my mother stepping in with her calming presence. She squeezes my shoulders briefly, seeing right through my composed exterior.

“Morning, Sky. How’s our little princess today?”

“She’s thrilled,” I say.

My mother nods knowingly. “You’re doing an amazing job, Skylar.”

Her assurance warms me, but it can’t quite erase the quiet fear. She lives this life alone, too—raising me single-handedly, wearing exhaustion like a badge. The cycle is never supposed to repeat. I want something different, better. Yet here I am, standing in shoes too similar to hers.

By the time I’m pulling out of the driveway, sunlight spills warmly across the city, Atlanta waking to life around me. Traffic rushes by, drivers caught in the mundane rush of another ordinary morning. But nothing about my life feels ordinary. Every choice, every action, revolves around protecting Nova from the world’s harsh edges. From the disappointments I endure, and the pain my mother tries and fails to shield me from.

The airport hums with early morning activity as I enter through security, greeting familiar coworkers warmly but distantly. They know me as Skylar Monroe—efficient, unflappable, confident. But no one truly knows me, not here, not anywhere. I keep my walls high, my secrets guarded. It’s safer this way.

At the gate, I fall into routine checks, scanning through today’s flight details, mentally preparing my cabin crew. The manifest opens, and my heart stutters violently, the professional mask fracturing momentarily.

Captain: Beckett Hayes.

Impossible. Beckett—the man in my orbit I can’t stop thinking about, before that final, breathless week in Paris. He had vanished overseas to chase his own horizon, unknowingly leaving behind shattered pieces for me to collect in the quiet of my mother's house. His memory burns vividly even five years later, a ghost that haunts the nights I spend wondering what could have been.

I remember the first time I saw him at the Atlanta base, a year before that trip. We spent twelve months in each other’s orbit—trading stories over terminal coffee and navigating short-haul hops while the tension between us grew with every shared flight. Paris wasn't a random occurrence; it was the inevitable, terrifying destination we had been taxiing toward for an entire year.

My fingers tremble slightly before I shove down the panic, replacing it with cold efficiency. This changes nothing. Beckett is the past. Nova and I—we’re my future.

Jessica, my co-attendant, notices the slip. “Sky, you okay? You look spooked.”

“Fine,” I say smoothly, forcing the lie through gritted teeth. “Just surprised by the pilot.”

Her eyes spark mischievously. “Old flame?”

I swallow hard, offering a tight smile. “More like an old ghost.”

She nods knowingly but thankfully doesn’t press further. I turn swiftly toward the jet bridge, breathing deep and steadying my heartbeat. Beckett is a chapter I close firmly years ago. I won’t let him reopen wounds I spent years carefully stitching shut.

On the aircraft, familiar routines comfort me. Safety checks, cabin prep, careful placement of snacks and drinks. Each step is methodical, soothing. Until Beckett’s voice slices through the hum of conversation from the cockpit doorway, low and steady.

“Good morning, crew. Looking forward to smooth skies today.”

My heart stalls painfully in my chest. His voice is deeper now, aged slightly, yet achingly familiar. I glance upward, breath stolen as he steps fully into view. Tall, lean frame confident beneath his captain’s uniform. His sandy-blond hair tousles carelessly, eyes the exact stormy shade of gray-blue I remember vividly.

His gaze locks onto mine with startling precision, shock evident before he quickly masks it. For a heartbeat, I’m nineteen again, laughing beneath Parisian lights, certain that love was simple, easy, inevitable. But reality settles in sharp and immediate, fracturing the illusion.

“Skylar,” Beckett murmurs softly, my name rolling intimately off his tongue.

“Captain Hayes,” I respond, voice clipped, professional despite my shaking heart. “Welcome aboard.”

His eyes darken briefly, confusion mixing with something deeper, something unresolved. He quickly covers the emotion, retreating behind the composed mask of command.

“Good to see you,” he says quietly, carefully neutral, and turns back to the cockpit.

I watch him disappear behind the door, feeling my chest squeeze painfully. Five years ago, Beckett Hayes is a reckless leap, a beautiful mistake that leaves scars and one breathtaking gift. Nova is my life, my reason. I refuse to let Beckett disrupt what I’ve built, what I protect fiercely. Yet, a quiet, terrified voice inside whispers that everything is already changing.

As passengers board and I settle into the jump seat, heart hammering loudly, I try desperately to ignore the question haunting my thoughts:

Am I strong enough to survive Beckett Hayes twice? At thirty thousand feet, locked in this metal cage with the man who still owns too many pieces of my heart, I’m afraid I already know the answer.