My Sister, a Pilot, Asked If My Husband Was Home — Seconds Later, Everything Fell Apart

“Kaye, I’ll call you back,” I said quietly.

“Ava, wait. I need to tell you—” Her urgency sharpened.

“I’ll call you back,” I repeated, and ended the call.

Aiden glanced up from his phone. “Everything all right? You look pale.”

Twenty years of forensic accounting had trained me to keep my expression calm while the floor disappeared beneath me. I’d sat across from people lying about missing millions, nodding and taking notes, gathering evidence while they smiled.

“Just tired,” I said, reaching for my own mug. “You should go back to bed,” Aiden suggested, his British accent wrapping around the words with familiar warmth. “Rest.”

My phone buzzed. A text from Kaye: Look at this. Now.

A photo appeared—shot through an airplane window, framing the interior of business class. Seat 3B. A man in a blue Tom Ford suit, caught in profile. The angle was imperfect, but the outline was unmistakable: the curve of his jaw, the way he held his head, the particular gesture of his hand mid-sentence.

Aiden. My Aiden.

He was talking animatedly to a blonde woman who looked about twenty-five, her hand resting on his forearm with casual intimacy.

I looked up at the Aiden in our kitchen—gray cashmere sweater, reading glasses pushed into his hair, wedding ring on his left hand.

“Actually, I think I’ll make pancakes,” I said.

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