Chapter 2 - The Altitude of Truth
The cabin lights dimmed for the long stretch over the Rocky Mountains, casting the interior of the Boeing 737 in shades of pale blue and shadow.
Luke had finally fallen asleep, his small head resting heavily against my thigh, his little thumb tucked into his mouth. The weight of his small body against my leg felt heavier than the entire $780 million valuation of Prescott Tech.
Cassandra sat beside me, her eyes fixed on the dark window, watching the moonlight reflect off the sea of clouds below.
"Why Denver?" I asked softly, keeping my voice low so as not to wake the children. "Why were you on this flight?"
"My mother's sister lives in Boulder," Cassandra replied, her voice distant, worn thin by fatigue. "When the lease on my apartment in Portland expired last month, I realized I couldn't make rent anymore. I took everything I had left, packed four suitcases, and bought three stand-by tickets for Christmas Eve. I was going to ask my aunt if we could sleep in her basement until I found work at a local gallery."
My jaw tightened so hard my teeth ached. "You were flying stand-by on Christmas Eve with two toddlers?"
Cassandra turned her head slowly, her eyes flashing with a spark of the fierce independence I had loved—and fought with—years ago.
"Don't you dare judge me, Damon Prescott," she whispered, her voice sharp with protective fury. "I worked two jobs until I was eight months pregnant. I painted custom portraits at night while nursing two infants at three in the morning. I did everything short of begging on the street to give them a good life. I didn't have a corporate jet. I didn't have a legal team. I had my hands and my kids."
"I'm not judging you," I said, reaching out instinctively to touch her hand. She flinched, pulling her fingers back, and the rejection hit me like a physical blow. "Cassandra... I'm horrified. I'm horrified that while I was buying real estate in San Francisco and flying first-class, the mother of my children was struggling to buy groceries."
"You built your empire," she said quietly, looking down at her lap. "That's what you always wanted. Remember our last fight? You told me that love doesn't build hospitals. You said ambition was the only thing that leaves a legacy."
The words felt like hot iron pressed into my chest. I remembered that night in our loft in Seattle. I had been twenty-nine, drunk on early success, terrified of failing, and utterly convinced that if I stopped moving for even a second, I would become the helpless, broke kid whose little sister had died in a county hospital because my parents didn't have the insurance for a specialized ventilator.
"I was wrong," I whispered.
Cassandra didn't answer. She just looked at Luke, whose breath was coming in soft, rhythmic puffs against my leg.
"How did they come into the world?" I asked, the question burning in my throat. "Tell me about the day they were born."
Cassandra swallowed hard, her posture softening slightly as the memory took over.
"It was a Tuesday," she said, a faint, tender smile gracing her lips despite herself. "Rainy. Typical Seattle May morning. My water broke six weeks early while I was trying to carry a box of diapers up three flights of stairs. I drove myself to the hospital."
I closed my eyes, picturing her alone in an emergency room, surrounded by strangers, while I was likely sitting in a glass-walled conference room arguing about equity split percentages.
"Luke came first," she continued. "Four pounds, two ounces. He didn't cry at first, Damon. They had to take him straight to the NICU."
My heart stopped. "NICU?"
"He had respiratory distress syndrome," she said gently. "His lungs weren't fully developed. For four days, I couldn't hold him. I could only put my pinky finger through the hole in the incubator. And every time I touched him... he squeezed my finger with everything he had."
She looked at me then, her eyes swimming with unshed tears. "He looked so much like you, Damon. Even with all those wires and monitors... he had your nose. Your dimple. I sat beside that plastic box for ninety-six hours, and all I could think was that his father was thirty miles away, building medical equipment, while his own son was fighting to breathe alone."
A single tear slipped down my face, hot and silent. I leaned my forehead against my hand, my shoulders shaking slightly.
"And Violet?" I managed to ask, my voice broken.
"Violet was five pounds, six ounces," Cassandra whispered, her tone softening further. "Feisty from the second she arrived. She screamed so loud the nurses laughed. She didn't need oxygen. She just needed her brother. The moment they put them in the same bassinet two weeks later, she reached out and grabbed Luke's ear. She's been protecting him ever since."
I reached out again, and this time, Cassandra didn't pull away.
I took her small, calloused hand in mine, resting our joined hands on the armrest between us, right above where our son slept peacefully against my side.
"I can't undo three years, Cassandra," I said, my voice steadying with a fierce, absolute resolve. "I can't give you back the nights you spent alone in the NICU. I can't buy back the first steps I missed. But I swear to you, from this moment on, you will never carry a burden alone again. Not a lease, not a grocery bill, not a fear."
The seatbelt sign above us chimed, illuminating in red as the pilot's voice came over the intercom:
"Flight attendants, prepare for arrival. We are beginning our final descent into Denver International Airport. Current ground temperature is twenty-four degrees with heavy snow."
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Cassandra looked at me, her eyes wide with sudden apprehension. "What happens when we land, Damon? You have a deal. You have a life."
"No," I said, looking down at my son's dimpled cheek, then across at my daughter sleeping against her mother's chest. "I have a family. And tonight, the rest of the world can wait."
