The cabin of the Boeing 737 smelled of stale coffee and damp winter coats.

Outside, New York was disappearing behind a curtain of gray sleet.

I buckled my seatbelt and stared out the window, wishing the flight to Chicago was already over.

A shadow fell over my row.

I did not look up until the passenger cleared his throat.

“Emma?”

My heart stopped.

I turned my head slowly.

Blake Harrington stood in the aisle, holding a sleek black leather briefcase.

He wore a tailored charcoal suit that cost more than my monthly research grant.

His dark hair was slightly damp from the rain, and his jaw was set tight.

“Blake,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

He looked at the ticket in his hand, then at the empty seat next to me.

“It seems we are sharing a row,” he said.

He slid his briefcase under the seat in front of him and sat down.

The space between us felt impossibly small.

The scent of his expensive cedarwood cologne filled my lungs, bringing back memories I had tried for four years to bury.

“What are you doing on a commercial flight?” I asked, keeping my eyes fixed ahead.

“My private jet has a mechanical issue,” Blake said, his voice low and smooth. “And I have an urgent meeting in Chicago in three hours.”

“Of course,” I said. “The world doesn’t stop for Blake Harrington.”

He did not reply immediately.

The engines roared to life, and the plane began to taxi toward the runway.

“How have you been, Emma?” he asked quietly.

“I am busy,” I said. “My work keeps me occupied.”

“I heard you moved back to the Midwest,” Blake said as the plane climbed through the clouds.

“I did,” I replied, staring at my hands in my lap. “It is quieter.”

“My mother told me you left the country,” he muttered, a trace of bitterness in his tone.

I stiffened at the mention of Helena.

“Your mother lies, Blake,” I said. “But you always preferred her version of the truth.”

He flinched, his fingers gripping the armrest.

“I saw your report on the Great Lakes water quality,” he said, changing the subject. “It was impressive.”