Chapter 2 - The Name Celeste Was Afraid OfNoah slept for eleven peaceful minutes.
His six-month-old son had been screaming for twenty-seven minutes.
Not fussing.
Not whining.
Screaming.
The kind of desperate, breathless crying that made an entire first-class cabin pretend not to stare.
Adrian sat in seat 2A of the overnight flight from New York to London, his black dress shirt wrinkled, his $18,000 watch smeared with formula, and his reputation as one of America's most controlled businessmen rapidly collapsing.
"Come on, Noah."
The baby arched against his chest.
Adrian tried the bottle again.
Noah turned his face away and screamed harder.
Across the aisle, Adrian's fiancée, Celeste Monroe, lowered her champagne glass.
"He has to eat eventually."
"I know."
"You said the pediatric nutritionist recommended that formula."
"She did."
"Then give him more."
Adrian stared at the expensive glass bottle sitting on the tray table.
Eight hundred dollars.
That was what the private clinic had charged him for the imported hypoallergenic formula, priority delivery, temperature-controlled packaging, and a consultation that lasted twelve minutes.
Noah had rejected every drop.
A flight attendant crouched beside them.
"Mr. Vale, would you like me to heat another bottle?"
Adrian almost laughed.
They had warmed it.
Cooled it.
Changed nipples.
Changed bottles.
Walked the aisle.
Burped Noah.
Changed him twice.
Nothing worked.
"I'm sorry," Adrian said quietly.
The flight attendant gave him the sympathetic expression people reserved for exhausted parents and public disasters.
"No apology necessary."
But other passengers clearly disagreed.
A gray-haired man in 3C sighed loudly.
Someone farther back muttered, "Unbelievable."
Celeste glanced toward the curtain separating first class from business.
"This is exactly why I said we should have taken your plane."
"It was grounded for maintenance."
"We could have waited."
"My board meeting starts at nine."
"And now the entire plane hates us."
Adrian looked at her.
"Our son is hurting, Celeste."
Her face tightened.
Technically, Noah wasn't her son.
Noah's mother, Adrian's wife, had died five months earlier.
Celeste had entered Adrian's life only recently, after years as a family acquaintance and, according to her, a friend who wanted to help him survive his grief.
Adrian hadn't proposed because he had fallen wildly in love.
He had proposed because his life had become a house with every window broken, and Celeste seemed willing to help hold up the walls.
Noah screamed again.
Adrian stood.
"Sir, the seat-belt sign—" the flight attendant began.
"I can't sit here while he's like this."
Then a small voice came from behind the curtain.
"You're feeding him the wrong thing."
The cabin went strangely quiet.
A girl stood in the aisle.
She couldn't have been older than ten.
Long brown hair.
Faded lavender hoodie.
Cheap sneakers with one loose lace.
She looked painfully out of place among the polished leather seats and champagne glasses.
A flight attendant hurried toward her.
"Sweetheart, you need to return to your seat."
The girl didn't move.
Her eyes remained fixed on Noah.
"He doesn't want that formula."
Celeste stared.
"Excuse me?"
The child pointed at the bottle.
"That's why he's crying."
Adrian was too tired to be offended.
"How would you know?"
The girl swallowed.
"Because my brother used to cry like that."
Noah's face had turned red.
His tiny fists were clenched.
The girl took one cautious step closer.
"Does he always pull his knees up after he eats?"
Adrian froze.
"Sometimes."
"And does his stomach get hard?"
Another pause.
"Yes."
"Does he get little red spots around his neck?"
Adrian looked down.
Under Noah's collar were several faint red patches.
Celeste interrupted.
"He's already been examined by specialists."
The girl ignored her.
"Was he born early?"
Adrian's heartbeat changed.
"Five weeks."
The girl's expression softened.
"Then maybe his stomach can't handle what you're giving him."
Celeste laughed once, sharply.
"This is ridiculous."
The flight attendant touched the girl's shoulder.
"Let's go."
"Wait."
Adrian said it.
Everyone stopped.
He stared at the child.
"What do you think he needs?"
She pointed toward the rear of the aircraft.
"My mom packed something for my baby brother. He's almost the same age."
Celeste's eyes widened.
"You cannot seriously be considering feeding Noah something from a stranger."
The girl looked directly at Adrian.
"Don't give him anything yet."
Then she did something unexpected.
She held out both hands.
"Can I show you?"
Adrian looked at those tiny hands.
Then at his screaming son.
Every rational instinct told him not to hand his infant to a ten-year-old stranger.
But there was something in her face.
Not confidence.
Recognition.
She knew that cry.
Adrian crouched.
"What are you going to do?"
"Nothing dangerous."
She looked almost offended.
"I'm just going to hold him differently."
Celeste whispered, "Adrian."
He ignored her.
The girl carefully placed one hand behind Noah's neck and showed Adrian how to angle him upright against his chest.
"Like this."
She adjusted Noah's legs gently.
"Don't push his stomach."
Adrian followed her instructions.
"Now pat here."
He did.
Noah screamed.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
Thirty.
Then came a tiny burp.
And another.
At forty-five seconds, the screaming stopped.
Not gradually.
Completely.
Noah blinked.
His body relaxed against Adrian.
The first-class cabin became so silent that Adrian could hear the engines humming beyond the windows.
The girl gave a small nod.
"Gas."
Noah made a sleepy sound.
A businessman across the aisle slowly lowered his newspaper.
The gray-haired man in 3C stared.
The flight attendant covered her mouth.
Celeste didn't move.
Adrian looked at the peaceful baby in his arms.
Then at the girl.
"What is your name?"
"Emma."
"Emma what?"
She hesitated.
"Emma Sullivan."
Something changed in Celeste's face.
It was tiny.
Almost invisible.
But Adrian had spent twenty years negotiating acquisitions across tables full of professional liars.
He knew fear when he saw it.
Celeste knew that name.
And she hadn't expected to hear it.
Adrian turned slowly toward her.
"Celeste?"
She reached for her champagne.
"I don't know what you're looking at me like that for."
But the hand holding her glass was trembling.
And for the first time that night, Adrian forgot about the crying.
Because suddenly he had a far more troubling question.
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Who was Emma Sullivan?
And why did his future wife look terrified of a ten-year-old girl?
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