Chapter 2 - The Ghost of Merritt Systems
My phone buzzed again. This time it wasn't a text; it was a direct satellite call from Marcus Vance, my senior partner and corporate bulldog.
I hit accept and pressed the phone to my ear, keeping my eyes fixed on Cassandra, who was quietly feeding Violet a pretzel stick.
"Damon! Where the hell are you?" Marcus’s voice barked through the receiver, tinny and frantic. "We’ve been locked in the Denver boardroom with Calder’s legal counsel for two hours. They’ve matched our $780 million valuation and added a stock kicker. If you don't sign the digital transfer authorization in the next twenty minutes, Prescott Technologies loses exclusivity on the infant resuscitator patent. Do you hear me? Nine months of work down the drain!"
The irony hit me with the force of a physical blow. For nine months, I had obsessed over a machine designed to save premature infants, pouring millions into R&D as a form of penance for failing to save my infant sister, Clara, when we were kids. And all the while, my own flesh and blood—two healthy, beautiful twins—had been growing in obscurity because I was too blind, too ambitious, and too cowardly to look past my own balance sheets.
"Let them have it, Marcus," I said calmly.
Silence stretched across the line for so long I thought the call had dropped.
"Let... let who have what?" Marcus sputtered, his voice cracking with disbelief. "Are you out of your mind? It’s Merritt Systems! It’s the crown jewel of our Q4 portfolio!"
"I'm stepping down as CEO, effective immediately," I said, my voice steady, brooking no argument. "You have my proxy to hand over operational control to the board. I'm finishing this flight, and I'm not coming back to the office."
"Damon, you can't be serious! You’re throwing away a lifetime of work over a mid-flight panic attack! What about your legacy?"
"My legacy is sitting three rows behind first class, Marcus," I whispered, glancing at Luke, who had fallen asleep with his head resting on Cassandra’s shoulder. "And for the first time in my life, I actually want to be part of it."
I hung up the phone before Marcus could scream another word, powered off the device, and slid it into the seatback pocket.
Cassandra was looking at me, her expression a fragile mix of skepticism and guarded hope. "What was that about?"
"Nothing," I said, reaching out to gently brush a stray curl of sandy-brown hair from Luke’s forehead. "Just closing my final transaction."
Chapter 3 turbulence and old flames
The remainder of the flight crawled by in a surreal, suffocating bubble. The cabin lights dimmed to a twilight purple as we crossed over the snow-draped peaks of the Rockies, the jagged silhouettes looking like ancient teeth biting into the star-studded winter sky.
Cassandra sat rigidly beside me, her posture defensive, keeping a protective arm slung over both sleeping children. The proximity was intoxicating and agonizing. She smelled of vanilla and cold pine needles—the exact same scent she had worn when we lived in a cramped, drafty studio apartment above a laundromat in Portland, back when we ate ramen by candlelight and dreamed of a future that didn't involve corporate ladders or boardrooms.
"How did you survive?" I asked quietly, breaking the heavy silence that had settled between us for the last hour. "After I left. After the mail came back."
She didn't look at me; her gaze remained fixed on the frosted airplane window, watching our pale reflections distort against the dark void outside.
"I didn't survive, Damon. I rebuilt," she said, her voice devoid of self-pity, which made it hurt all the more. "I took a job teaching art at a community college in Salem. I stayed on my mother’s couch for the first six months because I couldn't afford rent and prenatal care at the same time. I painted murals on children's hospital wards during the day and cried myself to sleep at night until my throat was raw."
Every word was a nail driven into my coffin. I thought of my penthouse in Manhattan, my private car service, my climate-controlled wine cellar, and the hollow, echoing silence that greeted me every night when I unlocked the door at midnight.
"You should have forced your way past security," I rasped, my voice thick. "You should have made a scene."
"And become a headline in the financial rags?" She finally turned her head, her green eyes—the exact twin of the ones looking back at me from the kids—flashing with sudden, sharp anger. "Damon Prescott's unhinged ex-girlfriend stalks billionaire tech prodigy outside corporate headquarters? No thank you. You made it very clear before you walked out that door that your life was moving upward, and anyone who couldn't keep pace was dead weight. I chose my dignity over your pity."
"It wouldn't have been pity, Cass," I said, reaching out to touch her hand.
She flinched, pulling her hand away as if my skin were burning hot.
"Don't," she whispered. "The time for touch was three years ago. We're different people now."
May you like
The warning bell chime chimed through the cabin, and the Captain’s voice crackled over the intercom, announcing our initial descent into Denver International Airport. The flight attendants began making their final cabin checks, securing stray bags and collecting trash.
My stomach plummeted, not from the aircraft's descent, but from the terrifying realization that touchdown meant reality. The temporary bubble of our airborne reunion was about to burst, and I had no idea whether Cassandra intended to let me step off that plane as a father, or leave me behind in the terminal like a ghost from her past.
