Page 99 of Mistletoe and Mayday
I scan the dining room with new clarity—the hand-painted Chinoiserie wallpaper, the antique silver candelabras, the crystal glasses worth more than most people’s monthly rent. It all looks hollow, elaborate props for a life I’ve been performing rather than living.
“Sebastian, sit down. We can discuss this rationally—” Mother’s voice carries that edge that usually ensures my compliance.
But I’m already moving toward the door. Toward Bailey. Toward love.
How many dinners have I endured in this mausoleum? How many times have I swallowed my thoughts along with the food?
My hand closes around the ornate door handle—solid brass imported from Italy, because nothing in this house can be ordinary. Nothing except emotions, which must remain contained.
Bailey stands just outside the door, arms wrapped around herself. Those incredible green eyes widen. She heard everything.
“You shouldn’t have?—”
“Yes. I should have.” My voice comes out raw, stripped of pretense.
I take her trembling hands in mine, stroking my thumbs across her knuckles to warm them, to anchor us both.
“I’m done playing it safe. You’ve shown me what it means to truly live.” A tear escapes down her cheek. I catch it with my thumb. “I meant what I said. I want my future moments with you—with or without my family’s blessing.”
Her lower lip trembles as she searches my expression.
“You’re honest and real, and that’s what I love about you. I won’t pretend my family’s approval matters more than the woman I love.” My voice breaks, and I let it. “The woman I love,” I repeat, stronger this time.
“I choose you, Bailey. Always.”
Her hand is steady in mine as her eyes search my face.
“You’ll regret this,” she whispers, the statement lifting at the end like a question.
“The only thing I’d regret is letting you go.”
Through the closed door, Mother’s voice rises. “Sebastian, come back here this instant!”
Bailey’s lips quirk upward. “Your mom sounds like mine when I chose piloting over medical school.”
“Did you go back?”
“Not a chance.”
Laughter erupts from somewhere deep inside me—unfettered and wild. Bailey’s eyes widen.
“I’ve never heard you laugh like that,” she whispers.
“I’ve never felt this free.”
The dining room door flies open. Mother stands framed in the doorway, Father behind her, their faces twin masks of shock.
“Sebastian, enough of this nonsense.” Father’s voice carries generations of Lockhart's expectations.
I look at Bailey—her unfiltered brilliance, her magnificent chaos, her complete inability to be anything but herself.
“Ready to fly?” I ask.
The surprise on her face transforms into something fierce and beautiful. She nods once.
“Sebastian!” Mother’s voice reaches that pitch reserved for social catastrophes.
But we’re already moving toward the front door, toward liberation, toward an unscripted future.
