Strangers Made Perfect

Episode 13: Return Flight

The Manhattan skyline glittered beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, a thousand lights winking against the dark. Far below, the city throbbed—horns blaring in bursts, sirens keening in the distance, traffic humming twenty floors beneath.

Inside, the conference line droned on. Disembodied voices filled the boardroom speakers: the rustle of papers, a cough caught too close to a mic, the clipped cadence of executives reciting numbers.

“Quarterly revenue is up twelve percent,” one voice reported, tinny with static.

“We’ll need stronger projections for Q1,” another replied, firm and practiced.

Liam O’Reilly wasn’t listening.

He sat rigid at the end of the long table, phone in hand, jaw tight. His thumb refreshed the screen again.

Another post.

Tagged: Raphael Hartmann and Paris Fajardo.

They were smiling outside Belfast Castle, mugs of tea in hand. Raphael’s arm rested easily along the back of her chair, Paris’s cheeks flushed from the cold. The caption read, “Sunday walks and good company.” Harmless, on the surface. But Liam felt the twist of it all the same, sharp and unwelcome.

He zoomed in on Paris’s face. She was laughing, head tipped back, carefree. He couldn’t hear it, but he could imagine the sound—clear, bright, unguarded. He hadn’t heard her laugh like that in years.

“Mr. O’Reilly?”

The voice from the speaker cut through the haze. Liam jerked upright, blinking as the room came back into focus. The door had opened.

Heather stepped inside, iPad tucked against her side, auburn hair pulled neatly back. Her green eyes swept the room, sharp with intelligence, before fixing on him. One fingernail tapped the tablet—a steady metronome of disapproval.

Her gaze flicked to the glowing phone in his hand. “Tell me you’re not scrolling f*******: in the middle of an earnings call,” she said, her Irish lilt softening the bite.

“It’s research,” Liam muttered.

Heather crossed the room, heels muffled against the carpet, and perched on the arm of a chair as though she owned it. “On Belfast Castle?”

The phone hit the table with a sharp clack. “Forget it.”

But Heather wasn’t letting go. Folding her arms, she tilted her head. “If you wanted to torture yourself, you could’ve stayed in Belfast. Flown business class, saved yourself the jet fuel.”

His eyes narrowed. “Business class?” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “I don’t need a ticket, Heather. I have my own jet. And in case you’ve forgotten—” he leaned back, letting the words land “—I bought Arrion Atlantic last October. I don’t fly airlines. I own one.”

Arrion Atlantic. Once a fading European carrier, half-forgotten on transatlantic routes, until Liam swooped in with his money and turned it into a trophy. To the press, it was a bold expansion, a foothold in aviation. To Heather, it was just another monument to his ego.

She arched a brow, unshaken. “Right. Spend half a billion on an airline just to remind people you’re above economy. Impressive. But it doesn’t change the fact you’re still scrolling Paris’s Sunday walks.”

Before New York, Heather had agreed to check in on Letty while Liam was buried in investor meetings. She remembered pausing at the nurses’ station, pretending to scan notes while her sharp eyes followed Paris down the corridor.

Paris crouched beside an elderly patient in a wheelchair, her voice gentle, reassuring. The patient’s anxious murmur faded into laughter, and Paris’s own laugh followed—light, genuine, unguarded.

Then came Raphael’s voice. Warm. Teasing.

“Paris, you forgot this.”

“I didn’t forget,” she laughed, rolling her eyes. “I just didn’t want to carry it and the meds at the same time.”

“Excuses,” he teased, handing over the chart. Their laughter mingled, effortless.

Heather saw it then—the ease, the comfort, the glow Paris carried into a room. And she understood exactly why Liam was spiraling. Paris wasn’t extraordinary in glamour. She was extraordinary in the quiet ways that filled spaces with warmth.

Heather’s eyes softened as she studied Liam. “She looks happy. You can glare holes through your screen all you want, but it won’t change that.”

His jaw flexed, but he said nothing.

Tap. Tap. Her fingernail beat a slow rhythm on the iPad. “And let’s be honest—you’re competing with a man whose biggest brag is knowing the chip schedule in the staff canteen. Meanwhile, you’re here in New York, pretending the skyline matters when all you hear is her laugh.”

The silence stretched. Sirens wailed faintly outside.

Heather pushed her glasses down, gaze sharp over the rims. “She’s not scrolling through your life, Liam. She’s living hers. Maybe you should try doing the same.”

The words hung heavy.

The clipped voice from the screen snapped him back. “Mr. O’Reilly? Your opinion on the revised budget?”

Liam straightened, his tone cool, authoritative. “The framework is solid. Trim discretionary spend by three percent and we’ll cover the international risk without cutting into domestic growth. Circulate the revisions by tomorrow morning.”

Relieved murmurs rippled across the line. Papers shuffled. Someone exhaled into their mic.

Before anyone could push further, Liam closed his folder. “That’s all for today. I have another engagement.”

The staff glanced at one another, unsettled.

“But, sir—the contracts—”

“Send them to legal. I’ll review in writing.”

“Mr. O’Reilly, the investors expected—”

“The meeting is finished,” he said, voice low but final.

The screen went black as the call disconnected. Silence filled the room, thick and expectant.

Heather arched a brow, breaking it with a dry smile. “Well. Nothing like ending a meeting with mild corporate whiplash. You’re lucky they’re more scared of you than annoyed.”

Liam gathered the papers he hadn’t read, sliding them into his case. His voice was quieter now, but absolute. “Clear the calendar. We’re going back to Belfast. Tonight.”

Heather tilted her head, lips quirking. “Finally. A field trip. Do I get to pick the in-flight movie, or is it all brooding silence and expensive whiskey?”

He didn’t answer. His gaze was already fixed on the skyline, where the city pulsed like a restless heartbeat. Paris’s smile still burned behind his eyes.

She could laugh, smile, and glow for Raphael in a hundred photographs.

It didn’t matter.

Because Liam O’Reilly was coming back.