Falling for My Runaway Bride

Chapter 27:

Liam’s POV

Isabella didn’t even try to hide her awe when the black SUV rolled past the hangar and stopped in front of the sleek silver jet bearing my name along the tail.

“This is yours?” she asked, blinking rapidly, her phone halfway raised like she wasn’t sure if she should be texting her therapist or filming a vlog.

“Yes.”

“You own a plane.”

“Several.”

She blinked again. “Right. Of course. Because rich.”

I stepped out first, barely waiting for the tarmac assistant to open the side hatch. Isabella followed, a little slower, heels clicking on the concrete, head swiveling as she took in the leather seats and the champagne tucked into the paneling like we were going to Aspen, not chasing a girl across the Atlantic.

She slid into one of the side seats and buckled herself in. “Okay, real talk: how long does it take to get your pilot here?”

I didn’t respond immediately. Just slid open the cockpit door, rolled up the sleeves of my shirt, and sat down in the pilot’s chair like I’d done it a hundred times before—because I had.

“No need,” I said, flipping the ignition switches. “I have a license.”

She stared.

“You’re flying ?”

“Yes.”

“Over the ocean?”

“Yes.”

“To chase your ex-not-girlfriend who thinks you’re engaged to someone else?”

I paused.

Then, calmly: “Also yes.”

She swore under her breath and dug her nails into the armrest. “If we die, I want it on record that I was the only voice of reason.”

“If we die,” I said, taxiing to the runway, “I’m taking the blame.”

“Good,” she muttered, eyes wide as we lifted off into the air, the nose of the plane angling toward the fading horizon. “Because this is either the most romantic thing I’ve ever been part of, or the dumbest. Possibly both.”

We soared higher.

The city shrank below us. Lights like constellations. The Atlantic waiting just ahead like the next obstacle in a very expensive love story.

I checked the navigation system, adjusted altitude, and for a moment—just one quiet, rare second—I let myself breathe.

And then my phone rang. I didn’t need to check the ID.

“Father,” I said into the headset.

“Liam.” The voice on the other end was calm, measured. Always.

“I’m rejecting the Lindsey arrangement.”

A pause.

“You’re midair right now, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“To chase the Sinclaire girl?”

“She’s not just the Sinclaire girl.”

“I see.”

Another pause.

“I suppose,” he said, with something dangerously close to resignation, “you’ve earned the right to make your own mistakes.”

“You said if I passed on this last one, you’d back off.”

“And I meant it,” he replied. “You’ve rebuilt the company. The board’s on your side. I’ll keep my distance.”

“You’ll call off Athena.”

“She’ll come after you on her own. I’ve told her where I stand. What happens now is up to you.”

The line went quiet.

Then: “Good luck, son.”

I didn’t respond.

Just set the headset down, focused on the sky, and pushed the jet a little harder.

When we landed on the other side—roughly eight hours later, just shy of a fuel warning and Isabella’s fifth muttered prayer—I didn’t wait for clearance or staff or logistics. I grabbed my coat, grabbed Isabella’s bag for her, and ran.

We sprinted through the private terminal, past customs, past blinking security staff who clearly hadn’t expected a man like me to be chasing something besides power.

At the arrivals board, I scanned the list.

Her mother’s jet wasn’t marked arrived yet.

But it was close.

Very close.