Page 22 of Aviatrix

The President walks in like he owns the air—tall, crisp, and commanding. Like gravity doesn’t apply to him. His suit is flawless. His expression colder than the room we’re sitting in.

I stand automatically.

“Sit,” the President says, not even glancing at his son. “We have a situation.”

No one speaks. Amber finds a seat beside the wall, folding her hands in her lap like she’s back at Sunday school. Lark sits across from me.

I keep my expression neutral, but my insides are a war zone. Because it’s not just that he’s Commander-in-Chief. It’s what it means that we’re here. And I know how much Lark wants to please him.

The President's gaze flicks to me. Sharp. Measuring. “Captain Quay.”

“Sir,” I respond, masking the tightness in my throat.

His eyes linger a second too long. Like he’s deciding whether I’m an asset or a problem. He moves on quickly.

“I’ve spoken with General Salamander,” the President huffs. “I’m not happy, Lark.”

My eyes flick to my former fiancé. His shoulders dip—barely—but I catch it. A tell. The reprimand lands harder than he wants anyone to see.

“Tell me what happened,” the President continues, his tone deceptively soft. But I know better. It isn’t compassion. It’s control. Lark’s father has mastered the art of weaponizing disappointment. And Lark? He still bleeds trying to earn the man’s approval.

“We were attacked,” Lark says, mechanically. “At 1300 hours. The assault by alien aircraft lasted thirteen minutes. Thirty-three confirmed dead. Twenty-nine survivors. More than half sustained injuries.”

“But you somehow survived?” the President asks, blue eyes narrowing. The same shade as Lark’s, only colder. Hungrier.

“Yes,” Lark answers, robotic now.

“Did they make contact?”

My pulse spikes. My body tenses. Say it. Tell him the truth.

Lark doesn’t flinch. “No,” he lies smoothly. “No contact made. We were attacked. One ship was downed by two of our pilots. The rest retreated.” He pauses, jaw flexing. “It’s a miracle we’re alive.”

“Where was the ship taken?” The President asks.

“The Pentagon,” Lark supplies. Then, his gaze finds mine across the table. There’s regret in it. Raw. Fresh.

But it doesn’t erase what I saw. Or what he chose to hide.

We both lost everything today. The difference? I didn’t lie about it.

“Well,” the President sighs, like this is all just another inconvenience, “someone has to take the blame. Is it going to be you?”

The President’s gaze flicks to me. Narrow. Measuring. Not surprised by my presence. Almost like he expected me.

“Were you incapacitated? Knocked unconscious?” The Commander-in-Chief directs his attention back to his son. “You trained for this, Lark. You should have been ready.”

Lark’s frown is instant. “For an alien invasion? Even though our government will neither confirm nor deny their existence?”

The President shrugs, casual cruelty in every line of his posture. “You never learn, son. You’ve always been better at looking like a soldier than acting like one. You think you earned that title on your own? Colonel? You’d still be flying test routes in Utah if it weren’t for me.”

My heart clenches.

No.

No matter how I feel about Lark, he didn’t get here on nepotism. He earned it. Every brutal flight hour. Every impossible mission. Every time he stood between a teammate and death. Lark may be a lot of things, but he’s not a fraud. Maybe in relationships, but never with his job.

I push off the table and stand before I can stop myself. “Mr. President,” I say, voice low but cutting, “as much as we’d all love to unpack this deeply awkward family trauma, thirty-three people died today.”