Strangers Made Perfect

Episode 14: Obsession

The jet hummed steady beneath them, leather seats creaking as Liam shifted for the twentieth time. Manhattan was already a memory behind the clouds, the Atlantic stretching black and endless below.

He sat with his phone balanced on one knee, thumb refreshing again and again. Paris laughing outside Belfast Castle. Paris pink-cheeked from the cold. Paris with Raphael’s arm draped much too close. Every image was salt in the wound.

Across from him, Heather swirled her whiskey like it was a crystal ball. At fifty-two, auburn hair streaked with silver, she carried herself like a woman who had survived too many arrogant men in suits just like Liam. She eyed him over the rim of her glass.

“If looks could kill, O’Reilly, that phone would’ve been buried with full honors by now.”

He didn’t glance up. “Mind your own business.”

“Oh, I am. Unfortunately, your business happens to be the most tragic soap opera I’ve ever been forced to watch on a private jet.”

Liam scowled. “He doesn’t deserve her.”

Heather perked a brow. “And you do? You just stormed out of a boardroom like a moody teenager. Very CEO of you.”

“It’s not—”

“Sulking?” she cut in sweetly. “Of course not. It’s strategic relocation. Very official.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Mm. And yet here I am, drinking your whiskey at thirty thousand feet while you doom-scroll like a divorced dad on Christmas Eve.”

He glared. “I’m not—”

Heather tapped the rim of her glass. “Cartier bracelet. Designer scarf. Both still in your luggage with the tags on. You shop like a man in love and then hide the evidence like a man having an affair—with his own feelings.”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“Oh, it is my concern.” Her eyes gleamed. “Because this isn’t romance. It’s obsession. And obsessing makes smart men do very, very stupid things.”

Liam turned to the window, Paris’s smile ghosting in the glass. For a flicker of a second, the thought whispered: Is it obsession? The ache in his chest told him otherwise.

Heather sighed. “If you’re going to unravel, at least unravel in style. Should I have the pilot dim the lights? Maybe a violinist in the aisle?”

His mouth twitched before he could stop it. “You’re impossible.”

“True. But unlike you, I’m not about to bankrupt myself buying jewelry I’m too chicken to give away.”

For the first time that night, Liam laughed—low, unwilling, but real. Heather leaned back, satisfied. “There it is. A pulse. Thought I’d have to stage an exorcism.”

The tires screeched against the wet tarmac, jolting him out of it. Belfast’s morning sky hung like a gray bruise, rain streaking across the oval windows. Heather snapped her seatbelt free with theatrical grace.

“Welcome home, Romeo. Try not to hurl yourself into the Irish Sea before breakfast.”

Liam ignored her, already sliding his phone into his jacket. The unread messages glared back—none from Paris.

The cabin door hissed open, cold air spilling in. A waiting car idled at the edge of the runway, two men in dark coats beside it.

Heather caught his hesitation. “You look like you’re marching to an execution.”

“Feels like it.”

She looped her arm through his. “Then at least die with your chin up. God forbid your last impression be that of a sulky teenager.”

They descended into the drizzle. The driver rushed to open the car door, but Liam paused, eyes snapping toward the hills. Somewhere beyond that gray curtain of stone and trees, Paris was here—laughing, maybe in someone else’s arms.

Heather squeezed his arm once, almost kind. “Remember what I said. Obsession makes smart men stupid. And you, Liam O’Reilly, can’t afford to be stupid. Not now.”

He slid into the car, silence heavy. For a moment, he swore he heard Paris’s laughter in the rain. But it wasn’t laughter. It was memory. And memory was worse.

The manager’s office smelled faintly of polish and bergamot, warm against the Belfast drizzle. Mr. Kearns sat behind a desk so immaculate it looked staged: invoices squared in piles, files tabbed neatly, a silver photo frame of him and his partner with two children, a miniature Pride flag tucked beside his pen cup.

“Tea?” he asked, already pouring. His voice carried the ease of a man long practiced at smoothing egos. He slid the porcelain cup across. “Stronger than that watery American coffee, I’m afraid.”

Liam accepted, setting it down untouched.

“We’re steady overall,” Kearns continued. “Roof still leaks in the east wing, kitchen still begging for a new oven. Nothing new. At least the staff have something to look forward to.”

“Morale?”

“The Ball.” Kearns laced his fingers. “UK Health Care’s annual gala. Two weeks from Friday. Donors, managers, staff from every home. Black tie, champagne, speeches. You’ll be there, of course.”

The word struck cold, but Liam didn’t let it show. “Of course,” he said smoothly. “The Ball.”

Kearns studied him a beat too long. “Good. I’d have been shocked if you’d forgotten. Half the staff are already whispering about tuxedos. Even O’Malley swears he’s going. Can you imagine? Man can’t keep flour off his apron, thinks he’ll glide across a ballroom floor.”

Liam forced a chuckle. “I can imagine.”

As Kearns laughed, Liam slid his phone from his pocket under the desk. His thumbs moved quick. Tell me everything about this Ball. Guest list. Venue. Time. She’ll be there, won’t she?

Heather’s reply came instantly. You eavesdrop worse than a schoolboy. Yes, the Ball. Two weeks. Five hundred guests. And yes—she’s on the list.

Paris.

He masked his face in polite neutrality as Kearns rambled about Brexit delays, though under the desk his pulse was hammering.

Another buzz. And while we’re at it—do you ever actually look at the paper I put on your desk?

Liam frowned. What do you mean?

Her answer landed like a slap. I hand-delivered that invitation two months ago. Put it right on top of your reports. You signed the RSVP. You even signed the check for the raffle prizes. Ten thousand pounds out of your account, Liam. And you’re sitting there pretending this is news?

His jaw tightened. I don’t remember—

Of course you don’t! Heather shot back. Because you don’t read anything unless her name’s on it. You’re so bloody obsessed you could sign away the building and not notice. Do you think I enjoy babysitting a CEO who acts like a love-sick schoolboy?

The phone buzzed again, merciless. You’re lucky I keep you stitched together. Without me, you’d wander into boardrooms half-dressed and forget your own surname. My daughter, Clara, rolls her eyes when I nag—but at least she remembers when she writes a bloody check. You? You sign ten grand away for raffle prizes and then look at me like I’m the mad one.

Another message followed before he could react. Do you know what Clara said last week? “Mum, working for Liam is like raising a third child.” A third! Between her keeping your calendar straight and me dragging you through emotional storms, we ought to invoice you for parental services. With back pay.

Liam forced himself to nod at Kearns’s story about donor seating charts, though his mind burned under Heather’s words. She was infuriating, relentless—and he loved that about her. Not the way he loved Paris, but in the way a drowning man loves air. Heather was steel where others simpered. Younger secretaries had tried flattering him, even throwing themselves at him. Heather had no use for that. She told him the truth, raw and unvarnished, and he leaned on that more than he’d admit.

Another buzz, final this time. So stop sulking and pay attention. I raised a daughter who can run an empire with a stapler. I won’t let you—my terrifying, allegedly brilliant boss—be outdone by a twenty-seven-year-old with office supplies.

Liam smothered the twitch of a smile, thumb pressed over the screen. Heather’s fury stung, but it steadied him.

One more buzz, lighter now: If you’re hell-bent on making a spectacle of yourself at this Ball, at least let me pick the suit. Watching you unravel in Armani might almost make the night worth it.

Kearns tilted his head, clearly waiting for Liam’s answer to some question. Liam smoothed his face into a polite mask. “We’ll review the supply orders again tomorrow.”

Then, without breaking eye contact, he typed back to Heather. Book it.