Page 10 of Mistletoe and Mayday
“I’m sorry, Sir.” Janet’s voice is barely a whisper. “Everything’s grounded until morning at least. The storm?—”
I end the call. The phone hits the dashboard with a crack. Perfect. Another thing broken tonight.
My fingers tremble as I dial another number. And another. Each rejection hits harder than the last.
“I’ll pay more.” My voice echoes in the frozen car. “Whatever your highest rate is, I’ll double it.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Lockhart. The weather?—”
I end the call before they finish. Another dead end. The phone’s screen mocks me with its list of crossed-out options. First-class seats on commercial flights: booked solid. Private charters: grounded by the storm.
Money’s not working.
Money always works. That’s the first lesson Father taught me—everything has a price. But here I sit, in a frozen parking lot in Nowhere, Alaska, and my billions might as well be monopoly money.
“Name your price,” I tell the fifth charter service. “Whatever it takes.”
“Sir, you don’t understand. It’s not about money. The airport’s closing. The storm?—”
I hang up. Again. The dashboard creaks under my fist. This isn’t happening. I’m Sebastian fucking Lockhart. I don’t get trapped. I don’t get stuck. I make things happen.
But the snow keeps falling, building walls around my car, around this town, around my perfectly planned life turned into a nightmare. Each flake is another reminder that some things can’t be bought, controlled, or managed into submission.
My phone buzzes. Mother again. Her third attempt.
Mother
Darling, how did she react? Tell me everything!
The leather steering wheel groans in my grip. How did she react? By being exactly who she always was—a perfect actress playing her part. And I, the fool who wrote her blank checks for the performance.
The snow’s getting thicker, but I can’t stay here watching it bury my car—and my dignity—any longer. The airport’s my last shot at escape. Everyone has a price. That’s what Father taught me, and he’s never been wrong.
The wipers barely keep up with the snow, each sweep revealing another blank white wall. Perfect metaphor for this night—the harder I push, the more resistance I meet.
My phone lights up. Rebecca again. I silence it without looking. The roads stretch empty ahead, street lights casting yellow halos in the snow. At least I won’t have to deal with traffic.
The small airport looms ahead through the snow. Myrented Bentley’s tires slip on the fresh powder as I pull into the parking lot.
My phone buzzes again.
Rebecca. Delete. Another. Delete. Each notification feels like a fresh slap.
The terminal’s nearly empty now, Christmas music still playing through tinny speakers. That same awful baggage carousel where that green-eyed woman mocked me earlier. At least she’s gone. I can’t handle any more reminders of this night’s humiliations.
Pride keeps my spine straight as I approach the ticket counter. A Lockhart doesn’t slouch. Doesn’t show weakness. Even when their perfectly constructed world crumbles around them.
“I need the next flight out. Anywhere.” The words taste like defeat, but I force them out. “Money is no object.”
The clerk’s expression tells me everything before she speaks. “I’m sorry, Sir. The airport’s closing in fifty minutes due to weather conditions. All flights are booked?—”
“Unacceptable.” The word cracks like a whip. “There has to be something leaving. Private flights? Cargo planes? Anything?”
My phone buzzes again.
Mother
Darling, should we announce the engagement tonight or wait for Christmas morning?
