Page 51 of Every Shattered Note
“You’ll get it.Can you wait until we’re on the plane?”
The driver clears his throat softly.Still waiting.Still holding the door like we’re not in the middle of some invisible tug-of-war.
“Please,” Rafe says again, quieter this time.“Let me give you this.Just a few days.After that, you can tell me to fuck off if that’s what you want.”
Give me this.
Like it’s a gift.Like he’s handing me something breakable wrapped in secrecy and hope.
And that part about me telling him to fuck off—he says it like it’s inevitable.Like he’s already made peace with losing whatever this could become.
Would I?
I glance at the open car door, at the interior washed in soft gold lighting and stitched leather.It smells like citrus and possibility and something just out of reach.Like the kind of peace I haven’t let myself want in a long time.
Without another word, I slide in.
He follows, pulling the door shut behind him with a soft click that feels louder than it should.The car hums to life, and we ease away from the curb.The lights of the city stretch behind us, fading like an overture that’s played its last note.
Tonight, I don’t reach for my planner.I don’t check the time.I don’t scroll through imaginary to-dos or try to make myself useful in the silence.
I just breathe and let the unknown take the wheel.
ChapterTwenty-Two
Alyssa
His hand brushes mine again—fingertips grazing my palm, lingering at the dip between my knuckles, as if letting go might cause something to unravel.He doesn't say a word about it, doesn't look down, just keeps touching me like it’s second nature now.Like I might slip through his fingers if he doesn’t.
The tarmac is quieter than I expected—eerily so.No roaring engines, no chatter, just the faint hum of hidden machinery and the occasional blink of runway lights glowing like distant fireflies.Everything is immaculate.
The asphalt gleams under overhead spotlights, flawless and freshly painted, like it’s been manicured for people who don’t have to wait.Not a single scuff or crack in sight.A sleek control tower rises in the distance, its glass windows dark, antennas pulsing red against the ink-black sky.It’s as if the whole place was designed to exist just outside reality—where no one asks questions and everything runs for just a certain number of people.
The car eases to a stop beside the jet, the low hum fading until the world feels suspended—like even the night is holding its breath.
He comes around to my side and opens the door.I hesitate—not out of doubt, but because something about this moment feels unreal.Like it shouldn’t be happening to me.
Then his hand reaches for me.
His fingers graze mine—just a touch, but it sparks all the way up my arm, landing somewhere dangerous.He helps me out like he can’t not touch me.His grip is protective in a way that feels anything but polite.
He doesn’t let go.
Instead, his grip shifts—fingers sliding between mine, palms aligning until there’s no space left.The move is simple, but it feels intimate enough to steal the air from my lungs.
It’s almost as if he’s claiming something he lost and isn’t ready to let go again.
My pulse stumbles.His thumb drifts over my skin—slow, unhurried, almost reverent—and the world narrows to that single point of contact.The jet, the night, the silence ...all of it fades until it’s just him and the way holding my hand suddenly feels like too much and not enough at once.
My breath stumbles from the quiet certainty in the way his thumb drifts across my skin, as if he already knows how to touch me without asking.
“Mr.Vaughn,” a woman in a tailored navy coat says, stepping toward us from beneath the wing.Her hair doesn’t move, not even in the breeze.“Your aircraft is ready.The pilot will taxi as soon as you’re aboard.”
I squint at him, suspicious.“This whole ‘Mr.Vaughn’ thing is highly questionable.”
He shifts beside me, jaw tight.“It’s my last name,” he mutters, like the words taste bitter.“Blame my father ...or grandfather for that matter.”
Then he climbs the stairs first, not waiting for an answer.At the top, he turns and holds out a hand, palm open, waiting.I hesitate for a second too long.
