Chapter 3 - The Private Terminal
The transition from the commercial chaos of O'Hare International to the secluded private aviation terminal felt like stepping through a looking glass into an entirely different universe.
While the other passengers from our flight were left jammed into the crowded jet bridge, fighting for gate-checked bags and waiting on slow baggage carousels, our exit had been an exercise in military-grade efficiency. Two black SUVs had driven directly onto the tarmac, pulling up right beneath the rolling stairs of a sleek, midnight-black Gulfstream private jet.
I stood at the base of the stairs, clutching Sophie tightly in her carrier, feeling entirely out of place in my faded jeans, worn sneakers, and diner-uniform jacket.
"Mr. Callahan, please," I pleaded, turning to Ethan as his bodyguards stood watch by the vehicle doors. "I appreciate that you helped me with Sophie on the plane, and I'm grateful for the quiet, but I can't do this. I have a sister waiting for me, I have a cheap rental car booked, and I don't belong... wherever it is you're taking me."
Ethan stopped at the foot of the stairs, turning back to look down at me. The harsh wind whipping across the tarmac ruffled his dark hair, but he didn't seem to notice the cold at all.
"Your sister is Chloe Morales, correct?" Ethan asked calmly.
I froze, my eyes widening in sheer terror. "How do you know my sister's name?"
"You were talking in your sleep somewhere over Iowa," he replied without missing a beat. "You muttered about missing her wedding rehearsal because your bus ticket fell through, and how you couldn't let her down again. And then you mentioned the address on Maple Street."
My mouth opened, but no words came out. He had listened to me ramble in a state of exhaustion, and somehow, his invisible empire had already processed the details.
"Your sister's wedding venue is currently being picketed by a contractor who claims he was stiffed on fifty thousand dollars for the catering hall renovations," Ethan continued evenly. "The wedding is in forty-eight hours, and as of three hours ago, the venue locked their doors. Your sister is sitting in her apartment right now, crying into a half-eaten box of donuts, believing her big day is ruined."
I felt the air rush out of my lungs. "What? No... no, Chloe didn't say anything about that on the phone..."
"She didn't want to worry you because she knew you drained your savings just to buy a plane ticket," Ethan said, stepping closer, his voice softening. "She loves you, Rachel. And you love her. But you walked onto that plane thirty-six hours without sleep, broke, stressed, and running on fumes. You can't save your sister's wedding if you collapse on her living room floor."
I looked down at Sophie, who was waking up, blinking her big brown eyes and letting out a soft, hungry yawn. Then I looked up at the towering, terrifying man who held the keys to half the city of Chicago.
"Why are you doing this?" I whispered, my voice breaking. "Men like you don't help exhausted waitresses from East L.A. out of the goodness of your heart. What's the catch?"
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Ethan gave a slow, dry chuckle—a sound devoid of humor, rich with the weight of a world I couldn't possibly understand. "There's no catch, Rachel. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, and sometimes a tired mother just needs a break. Now, are you going to walk up these stairs, or do I need to carry you both?"
Defeated by exhaustion and desperate for my sister, I swallowed my pride, hitched Sophie's diaper bag higher on my shoulder, and walked up the steps into the private jet.
