Safe With You

Absolutely, Completely, and Utterly Done

~ Alyssa ~

There comes a point in every woman’s life when “holding it together” stops being noble and starts being delusional.

That point arrives for me at precisely 3:27 p.m. on a Thursday — somewhere between an emergency call from PR about a leaked investor memo, a tearful voicemail from my lawyer about Mark’s trial prep, and a new email titled “URGENT: sample delays — 72 dresses missing.”

My coffee’s gone cold.

My head’s pounding.

And I can feel my sanity fraying like a hemline caught in a fan.

“Absolutely,” I mutter, staring at my overloaded inbox. “f**k this.”

The words hang there, soft but sharp.

And for the first time in weeks, they feel good. Liberating.

Like an exhale after months of holding my breath.

Without thinking, I open my laptop and type:

Luxury family water park resort Portugal. All inclusive. Private suites.

Click.

Scroll.

Book.

No hesitation. No second guessing. Just… done.

The confirmation email pings seconds later — five suites, private villa access, sun, slides, and not a single boardroom in sight. I sit back in my chair, grin spreading across my face like mischief.

Then I open the AQ group chat — Elle, Kelsi, and me.

My fingers fly across the keys:

Alyssa: I’m going away for the week. I need to de-stress. You’re in charge.

Tray thinks he’s in charge.

Fire anyone you need to within reason.

Not bringing you coffee isn’t a reason.

Don’t burn my building down.

Love you.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I fire off another message — this one to the man I trust more than anyone on earth.

Alyssa → Greyson 💙: Get home. Now. We have six hours to pack and be at the airport.

No emojis. No explanation.

If I give him details, he’ll ask questions — and right now, I need action, not logic.

Finally, I text Lillian.

Alyssa → Lils: Start packing for yourself and the girls. We’re going on a well-deserved break. Somewhere hot. With a waterpark.

I hit send, lean back, and close my eyes.

For the first time in what feels like years… I smile.

~ Greyson ~

I’ve survived construction site explosions, client meltdowns, and an entire weekend with Triston’s cooking.

But nothing — nothing — makes my stomach drop like a message from Alyssa that just says:

>Get home now. We have six hours to pack and be at the airport.

No location. No reasoning. No “love you.”

Just the kind of command that makes me wonder if she’s finally snapped or planning to stage a coup somewhere tropical.

I reread the text three times, then glance at Markus, who’s halfway through a project report.

“She’s done it, hasn’t she?” he says flatly.

“Done what?”

“Snapped. Lost it. Gone full CEO meltdown.”

I sigh, pocket my phone, and grab my jacket. “If you don’t hear from me in twenty-four hours, assume I’m in a volcano.”

By the time I pull into the driveway, I can already hear chaos from inside — laughter, shrieks, what sounds like a hairdryer, and Lillian shouting something about “sunscreen inventory.”

I step into the house and nearly trip over a suitcase the size of a baby elephant.

Alyssa’s standing in the middle of the living room surrounded by piles of swimsuits, beach towels, and enough sun hats to shade an army.

Her hair’s a mess, her cheeks flushed, and she looks radiant.

“We’re leaving,” she declares.

“I figured,” I reply dryly. “Since you texted me like a mob boss.”

“Portugal,” she says, waving a printed itinerary. “Sun, slides, and silence. We’re going.”

“Now?”

“In six hours.”

I look at her — this beautiful, exhausted, stubborn woman — and start to laugh.

“You’re serious.”

“Deadly.”

She crosses her arms, glaring with mock severity. “Don’t argue, Grey. Just pack. I’ve already booked first class.”

I raise an eyebrow. “All of it?”

She smirks. “Maybe.”

And that’s when I know she’s really gone full Alyssa Rose — unstoppable, dramatic, and somehow completely irresistible.

~ Lillian ~

When I get Alyssa’s text, I’m mid-way through convincing Poppy that glitter is not an acceptable breakfast topping.

I stare at my phone. Then at the girls. Then back at the phone.

“Pack your swimsuits,” I announce. “Your mother’s gone feral.”

Quinn squeals, nearly knocking over her cereal bowl. “We’re going on holiday?!”

“Apparently.”

Poppy jumps up, spinning. “Can we bring unicorn floaties?”

“Yes. And sunscreen. And maybe earplugs for Aunt Lillian.”

Within minutes, I’m knee-deep in suitcases.

Melissa’s folding clothes with military precision; Preston — always stoic, always watching — hovers by the door with a walkie-talkie and an expression that says ‘I’d rather fight terrorists than pack bikinis.’

“Are we really going abroad?” Melissa asks, folding tiny socks.

“Yes.”

“Do they know yet?”

“Not a clue.”

Poppy tugs my sleeve. “Does daddy know?”

“Oh, he’s about to.”

As I’m wrestling with a zip, Quinn clambers onto the sofa with Hope balanced in her lap.

“Lillian?”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Can we build sandcastles?”

“Ten of them.”

“And swim every day?”

“Until your fingers wrinkle.”

Her grin lights up the room. “Best. Auntie. Ever.”

And despite the chaos, my heart aches with something warm.

Because whatever’s happening — whatever Alyssa’s running from — she’s running to the right place.

~ The Chaos of Departure ~

Three hours later, the house looks like a suitcase bomb went off.

Greyson’s double-checking passports.

Lillian’s on the floor sorting toys by “quiet” and “too loud for a plane.”

Melissa’s labelling bottles of baby formula like it’s an Olympic sport.

Preston’s coordinating with three more guards — all black suits, all silently terrifying.

Hope’s wailing.

Poppy’s singing.

Quinn’s debating which stuffed animal deserves to come along (“you can’t take all nine, darling”).

Through it all, Alyssa sits at the kitchen counter, sipping coffee like a queen surveying her empire.

When the last bag is zipped, Greyson finally stops moving. “Do we have everything?”

Alyssa nods serenely. “Probably not. But we’ll buy what we forget.”

At 6 p.m. sharp, two sleek SUVs pull up outside.

The girls cheer. Preston takes point.

The bodyguards fan out like they’re escorting royalty.

Which, in a way, they are.

~ Airport Mayhem ~

The check-in desk worker blinks. “You’ve… booked out first class?”

Alyssa smiles sweetly. “Privacy’s a necessity when you have two hyperactive seven year old "

The woman stares at her screen, then at the entourage — four bodyguards, one nanny, two hyper children, a baby, and a designer who looks like she hasn’t slept in weeks.

“Of course,” the clerk says faintly. “Right this way, Ms. Rose.”

Security is chaos in slow motion.

Poppy insists her glitter wand is “essential.”

Quinn sets off the metal detector with a tiara she forgot to remove.

Hope decides the conveyor belt noise is terrifying and bursts into tears.

Alyssa handles it with eerie calm — a CEO in full battle mode.

Lillian bribes the girls with snacks.

Greyson mutters prayers to whatever god handles family travel.

By the time they reach the gate, everyone looks mildly traumatised.

Alyssa, however, looks smug.

“I told you we’d make it.”

Greyson exhales. “You terrify me.”

She beams. “And yet, you still want to marry me” she lifts up her hand with her ring on and sticks her tongue out like she's five years old.

~ On the Plane ~

They board to find the cabin silent. Empty.

Twelve plush seats. Curtains drawn. Champagne chilling.

Alyssa’s name on every boarding pass.

Greyson stops mid-aisle. “You… you booked out the entire cabin?”

“Of course.”

“For privacy?”

“For peace,” she corrects, unbuckling Hope’s carrier. “And to prevent anyone from judging my children’s snack-to-sugar ratio.”

Lillian bursts out laughing as Poppy and Quinn race down the aisle, squealing about “beds on planes!”

Preston sits stoically in the back with his team, scanning the surroundings like he’s guarding royalty.

Alyssa sinks into her seat, kicks off her heels, and sighs like a woman reborn.

Greyson drops beside her, still in mild shock.

“You’re insane,” he murmurs.

“I’m free,” she counters.

The flight attendant pokes her head in, eyes wide. “Would you like champagne before takeoff?”

“Yes,” Alyssa says immediately. “And juice boxes for my tiny tyrants.”

Lillian’s laughing so hard she nearly chokes on her pretzels. “Alyssa Rose, I swear, if chaos were an Olympic sport, you’d be undefeated.”

Alyssa leans back, grinning. “Darling, chaos is an art form.”

The plane begins to taxi.

Outside, the runway glows gold in the setting sun.

Inside, laughter bubbles through the cabin — soft, genuine, full of something long overdue: peace.

Greyson reaches for her hand.

“Still stressed?” he murmurs.

She smiles, head tipping against his shoulder. “Ask me again in Portugal.”

As the plane lifts off, Hope gurgles, Quinn cheers, and Poppy starts a singalong about sunshine and slides.

Lillian groans but can’t stop smiling.

And Alyssa?

She closes her eyes, exhales, and lets the hum of the engines drown out everything that isn’t this moment.

For the first time in months — maybe years — she isn’t CEO, survivor, or strategist.

She’s just Alyssa.

A woman on a plane.

With her family, her freedom, and a one-way ticket to sunlight.