Chapter 2 - The Unspoken ProposalThe silence that followed my words was so absolute that I could hear the rhythmic, distant hum of the Boeing’s twin jet engines vibrating through the floorboards.
Julian Vance stared at me. It wasn't the look of a man evaluating a medical professional; it was the look of an apex predator trying to determine whether an unfamiliar animal was a threat or a distraction.
"Explain," he commanded.
"He's overstimulated," I said, my voice steadying despite the tremor in my hands. "He’s at altitude, surrounded by strange sounds, bright lights, and dozens of stressed-out adults. His cortisol levels are through the roof. He’s not hungry for food, Mr. Vance. He’s hungry for safety."
The bodyguard’s hand finally slipped out from beneath his jacket, though he didn't relax his posture.
Julian leaned forward, supporting the infant’s heavy, bobbing head against his palm. "We've tried rocking him. We've tried pacifiers. We've tried white noise apps, carrier wraps, and every soothing technique known to pediatrics. Nothing works."
"Because you smell like stress, adrenaline, and stale coffee," I said bluntly.
Several passengers down the aisle gasped. The sitcom actress dropped her catalogue.
Julian’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "Watch yourself, nurse."
"I am watching myself," I countered, stepping past the bodyguard—who finally yielded an inch when he saw the absolute, unyielding calm in my eyes. "Look at him. His skin is mottled. He's breathing in shallow bursts. He needs skin-to-skin contact, a regulated heartbeat, and a steady milk supply that matches his physiological needs—not processed cow's milk derivatives heated in a plastic bottle."
Julian stared down at his son, whose cries had devolved into pathetic, hiccuping whimpers. The fight seemed to drain out of the billionaire in slow motion, leaving behind only the raw, exposed terror of a single father who realized his money couldn't buy his child a single moment of peace.
"And where," Julian asked slowly, his voice laced with bitter skepticism, "do you propose we find that at thirty-five thousand feet over the Atlantic?"
I swallowed the lump of panic wedged firmly in my throat. I thought of my milk leaking beneath my cotton blouse—a constant, biological reminder that my own daughter had been weaned too fast, too violently, amid the wreckage of a dying marriage.
"You're looking at her," I said.
The cabin seemed to tilt.
Julian blinked, processing the words. Then his gaze dropped slowly from my eyes down to my chest, before snapping back up with a jolt of pure, unadulterated shock.
"You..." Julian started, his deep voice catching on the syllable. "You're a nursing mother?"
"My daughter is three," I said steadily, keeping my voice low and clinical to strip away any awkwardness. "I'm still producing. My supply is high, clean, and entirely unrestricted. If you want your son to stop screaming, you need to hand him over to someone whose body knows how to reset his nervous system."
The bodyguard cleared his throat, looking intensely at the overhead luggage compartment as if hoping it would swallow him whole.
Julian didn't look away. He stood up slowly from his leather seat, towering over me by nearly a foot. Up close, I could smell the expensive cologne mixed with sour spit-up and sheer exhaustion.
"You're offering to nurse my son?" he asked, the words stripped of all arrogance, leaving only raw, desperate inquiry.
"I'm offering to save your sanity, and everyone else's in this cabin," I corrected softly. "Provided you step aside and let me take him to the galley where we have some privacy."
For five agonizing seconds, Julian Vance weighed my face, my uniform badge, and the quiet authority in my posture. Then, without a single word of hesitation, he scooped the tiny infant from his chest and transferred him directly into my arms.
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The baby was impossibly light—scarcely six pounds, wrapped in a cashmere blanket that cost more than my monthly grocery budget. As soon as his small, damp cheek brushed against my forearm, his whimpering hitched.
I turned on my heel and walked briskly down the aisle toward the rear galley, leaving the first-class cabin in a state of stunned, paralyzed silence.
