Chapter 1 - The Crossing of the Curtain
The sign above row fourteen flickered once before stabilizing, casting a pale, sterile glow over the cabin of Flight 412. Up in first class, Damon Prescott had spent the last twenty minutes staring at the back of a leather seat, his phone buzzing violently against the armrest with missed calls from London, New York, and Zurich. His chief operating officer was screaming about a hostile stock acquisition that required his signature by midnight.
Damon didn't care.
The billion-dollar empire he had built from a basement server room in Seattle felt suddenly, terrifyingly weightless. All it had taken to dismantle his entire universe was a glimpse of a dark ponytail, a pair of green eyes that mirrored his own reflection, and a little boy pressing his hands against an airplane window.
He unbuckled his seatbelt with a sharp click. The flight attendant, a young man with a tired holiday smile, stepped into the aisle, holding a tray of plastic cups.
"Mr. Prescott? Is everything all right? Do you need another drink—"
"I need to walk," Damon said, his voice flat, low, and devoid of the corporate charm he usually reserved for the public.
Without waiting for permission, he stood up, his tall frame cutting an imposing figure down the narrow aisle of the Boeing 737. Passengers looked up from their magazines and tablets, recognizing the sharp, expensive cut of his charcoal suit and the unmistakable intensity etched into his jawline. But Damon didn't see them. His vision was tunneled entirely on row fourteen, seat B.
As he parted the navy-blue curtain separating first class from economy, the change in atmosphere hit him like a physical blow. The air was denser here, smelling of stale peanuts, hand sanitizer, and the faint, sweet scent of baby powder.
Cassandra heard his footsteps before she saw him. Her entire body went rigid. The magazine she had been holding to distract Violet slipped from her fingers and fluttered quietly to the floor.
"Damon," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the drone of the jet engines.
He stopped right beside her row. The aisle was narrow, forcing him to stand close enough that the scent of her lavender shampoo—a scent he had tortured himself with every sleepless night for three agonizing years—flooded his senses.
"Three years, Cassie," Damon said, his voice trembling with a fury so deep it sounded like grief. "You vanished into thin air. You changed your phone number, cleared out our apartment, left a legal notice on a kitchen counter... and you never once told me?"
Cassandra slowly turned her head. Her face was paler than it had been at the boarding gate, her eyes dark-rimmed with exhaustion, but the stubborn fire that had always driven him crazy still burned in her gaze.
"Tell you what, Damon?" she asked, her voice dangerously quiet. "That you were too busy conquering the world to notice when your wife stopped existing? That you spent our fifth wedding anniversary in a Tokyo boardroom while I sat alone in an empty house?"
"That doesn't give you the right to steal my children!"
The word children dropped into the aisle like a live grenade.
Luke looked up from his coloring book, his little eyebrows furrowing in a replica of Damon’s signature scowl. "Mama, why is the angry man yelling?"
Violet buried her face against Cassandra’s arm, clutching her gray elephant tighter.
Damon’s chest heaved. He looked down at the boy—at the curve of his cheek, the shape of his nose, the exact shade of hazel-green in his iris. Every drop of blood in his veins roared in protest against the lie he had lived for thirty-six months. He had believed she left because she was tired of his ambition. He had believed she wanted nothing to do with his money, his name, or his life.
She hadn't just left. She had hidden two human beings from him.
"You're coming to first class," Damon ordered, his hand gripping the armrest of the middle seat.
"I am not moving anywhere," Cassandra snapped, her chin lifting defiantly. "We bought these seats, we stay in these seats. If you want to make a scene in front of three hundred people on Christmas Eve, go right ahead, Mr. Billionaire. Let everyone see how well you handle a family you never wanted."
"Never wanted?" Damon let out a harsh, humorless laugh. "Cassie, look at them. Look at my eyes staring back at me. Do you have any idea what I would have given—what I did give—trying to find you?"
"You didn't look very hard," she whispered, a single tear finally breaking free and tracking down her cheek. "You didn't look at all."
Before Damon could answer, the captain’s voice crackled over the intercom. “Cabin crew, prepare for landing. We are beginning our descent into Denver International Airport. Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts.”
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Damon stared at her for one long, agonizing second. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and walked back toward first class. But as he buckled himself into his seat, his fingers were shaking.
The game had changed. And whoever was responsible for keeping his wife and children hidden from him was about to pay a very heavy price.
