After flipping the switch, the crowd goes wild—I can’t hear it, not really, but I can feel it, a roar cutting through the static in my headset.
“Beautiful run,” Amelia echoes through the comms. “Hold formation. Last pass—Ash, tighten it up.”
“Already on it.” I ease into the curve, the wings of Knox’s jet barely a breath away as we slice across the sky, our smoke trails weaving into perfect symmetry.
The last note of the anthem hits just as we crest over the track, and I pull the stick gently, the team rising as one.
“Perfect.”
That is all Amelia says, but damn if it doesn’t hit like a straight-up adrenaline shot.
We bank left and head toward the open sky, but all I can think about is the sound of her voice—steady, sure—and how it always pulls me back, even when I am miles above everything else.
Yeah, I am definitely screwed.
The Miami heat has finally eased into something tolerable as we make our way back to the hotel, the sidewalks still buzzing with late-night energy—cars honking, music bleeding out of open windows, palm trees swaying in the warm breeze. The team is in good spirits, all of us laughing over something Noah said at dinner—something about Knox’s disaster of a karaoke attempt the last time we had a night off.
Ash walks just behind me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him at my back, his laughter low and easy in my ears. I feel… light. For once, the tour feels fun instead of just another high-stakes job.
And then I see him.
Preston.
It’s like my body recognizes him before my brain fully catches up—every muscle in me tensing all at once, feet rooted to the sidewalk as the easy buzz from dinner drains right out of me. He stands maybe ten feet away, right in front of the hotel entrance, his hand casually resting on the lower back of the woman beside him. His new woman.
Or rather, the woman I caught him with.
Her soft smile curves upward as she turns slightly, her hand pressing against the undeniable swell of her stomach—rounded and obvious in a way that leaves no space for questions.
Pregnant.
I feel the air knock right out of me.
Preston’s gaze snaps to mine, and for half a second, there is that flicker of guilt in his eyes—before it slides into something smoother. Smug, even. Like he is waiting for me to react.
“Amelia,” he says, like it is normal. Like we didn’t end in the worst possible way.
The blood roars in my ears, but I force a blank look on my face, every instinct screaming not to let him see how much it still stings.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he adds, as if this is just some awkward run-in and not a car crash in slow motion.
Behind me, I feel Ash move closer, his presence a steady wall at my back, though he says nothing. He doesn’t need to.
I lift my chin. “Miami’s a big city, Preston. Shame it’s not big enough.”
His jaw ticks, but before he can fire anything back, I turn my gaze to her—the woman I once walked in on, tangled up with him in a mess that blew my life sideways. Her hands instinctively cradle her bump protectively, and something heavy twists low in my chest.
“Congratulations,” I say flatly, though it tastes bitter.
She blinks, clearly not expecting me to say anything at all.
I don’t wait for Preston to respond. I turn on my heel, my heart hammering so hard I am sure Ash can hear it through the damn humidity.
“Amelia—” Ash’s voice is low, but I don’t stop walking until we round the corner of the hotel, the weight of the encounter finally slamming into me.
I drag in a sharp breath. “Of all the people…”
I am still trying to shake it off—the image of Preston standing there like some ghost I didn’t invite, his smug face, her standing beside him, glowing and pregnant—when Ash tugs me around the side of the hotel. His hand is still warm against my elbow, steady, like he isn’t about to let me spiral all the way down.
