Chapter 3 - The Boarding Call
The private terminal at JFK was bathed in the sterile glow of mid-morning light. Outside the reinforced glass, the Gulfstream G650 stood gleaming on the tarmac, its engines whining in idle anticipation. Grant Whitmore stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, an untouched espresso resting on a polished granite side table beside him.
For a man who had built an empire by orchestrating every variable to his advantage, he felt completely derailed. His phone felt unusually heavy in his palm. Since leaving the Westchester estate four hours earlier, he had checked the screen every three minutes. No texts. No missed calls. No updates from Hannah about her blood pressure or her afternoon shift at the clinic.
"Darling, you haven't touched your coffee."
Sloan Mercer appeared at his elbow, trailing a cloud of bespoke French perfume. She was dressed for international travel in an oversized cashmere coat, tailored cream leggings, and sunglasses pushed atop her sleek, dark blowout. A porter followed behind her, rolling two matching Louis Vuitton trunks behind Grant's battered leather duffel.
Grant glanced at the espresso, then back to the runway. "I have a lot on my mind."
"Well, leave it in Manhattan," Sloan murmured, slipping her hand through the crook of his arm. Her manicured nails lightly pressed against his bicep. "This week is about us. New investments in the Amalfi portfolio, dinner on the cliffside, no boardroom crises. Just you and me."
Grant stiffened slightly at her touch—an involuntary reaction that did not escape Sloan's notice. She tilted her head, her smile thinning.
"You've been distracted since you picked me up," she said, her voice dropping into that melodic, slightly demanding register she used when she felt her authority challenged. "Is something wrong with the jet?"
"Nothing is wrong," Grant replied evenly, pulling his arm away under the pretense of adjusting his cuffs. "I'm reviewing the numbers for the marina buyout."
"You promised work wouldn't follow us into the suite," she purred, stepping closer, her fingers tracing the lapel of his tailored jacket. "Especially that suite. I had the concierge arrange for white lilies to be placed on the terrace before our arrival. Don't you think that’s romantic?"
Grant stared down at her. White lilies. Eight years ago, Hannah had filled that exact terrace with wild bougainvillea and potted lemon trees because she insisted that imported hothouse flowers looked dead against the Mediterranean sea. She had run her bare feet over the sun-warmed terracotta tiles, laughing as sea spray kissed her hair, completely unconcerned with luxury labels or choreographed romance.
A sudden, sharp vibration in Grant’s pocket broke the trance. He pulled his iPhone out instantly, his heart executing a sudden, erratic skip.
It wasn't Hannah. It was a text from his assistant, Marcus: Mr. Whitmore, your sister Rebecca called the office. She wanted to know if you had the contact for Ethan’s bridge materials. I told her I had no record of it on the shared calendar.
Grant rubbed the bridge of his nose, an inexplicable flare of irritation rising in his chest. "Tell her to check the folder in the mudroom," he typed back rapidly. "Hannah left instructions."
He hit send and stared at the screen. Hannah left instructions. The realization settled into his stomach like lead. Hannah had always handled these things invisibly. He had spent eight years assuming his life functioned on effortless clockwork because he was wealthy enough to command it. He had never considered that the clockwork was wound entirely by his wife’s quiet, tireless hands.
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"Grant? They’re ready for us," Sloan called from the jet bridge, looking back with an expectant, radiant smile.
Grant took a breath, swallowed the bitter dryness in his throat, and pocketed his phone. "Coming," he said. He walked toward the aircraft, unaware that the anchor securing his life to reality had already snapped.
