Chapter Eleven - Chloe
The hum of the jet’s engines is steady and soothing, a low, constant vibration that drowns out the chaos I’ve left behind. I sink deeper into the plush first-class seat, my fingers grazing the edge of the oversized sunglasses perched on my nose.
My reflection in the small window is unfamiliar—a polished, deliberate illusion. Blonde hair tucked into a sleek bun, a designer scarf knotted effortlessly at my neck, and not a trace of the real me in sight.
On the tray before me sits a half-full glass of wine. I pick it up, swirling the liquid idly as I glance down at the fake passport resting in my lap. The name stares back at me, bold and impersonal: Samantha Brooks.
The passport photo is a perfect match for my disguise—my hair, the sunglasses, even the faint smirk I’d forced myself to adopt for the camera. It’s seamless. Perfect. Untraceable. A new identity carefully crafted and executed without a single loose end. Everything about this version of me feels like armor, a layer between who I was and the freedom I’m grasping at now.
I tap the burner phone resting beside the passport, its cheap plastic casing a far cry from the sleek device I left behind. No contacts. No history. Nothing to tie me to Chloe Hart. The corners of my mouth curve slightly, a victorious smile tugging at my lips.
Every detail, every step, has gone exactly as planned.
The flight attendants move through the cabin, their practiced smiles and hushed voices part of the soothing hum that fills the space.
The captain’s voice crackles over the intercom, announcing our descent into Barcelona. I glance out the window as the sprawling city comes into view, sunlight reflecting off the Mediterranean waters in the distance. Another sip of wine calms the last lingering threads of anxiety, the warmth of it spreading through me like a quiet reassurance.
This is it. I’m free.
The plane touches down smoothly, a gentle thud as the tires meet the tarmac. The golden light of the Barcelona sun streams through the windows, bathing the cabin in a warm glow as the aircraft taxis to the gate.
I wait patiently as the other passengers rise and gather their belongings, watching the practiced choreography of seasoned travelers unfold around me. There’s no need to rush—I’ve rehearsed this moment a hundred times in my head, each movement deliberate and precise.
By the time I disembark, the buzz of the terminal is in full swing. Tourists chatter excitedly, announcements echo over the loudspeakers, and the faint scent of coffee wafts from a nearby café. It’s chaos, a symphony of sound and movement that should feel overwhelming, but to me, it feels like freedom.
I retrieve my single piece of luggage from the carousel—a designer carry-on that’s both minimal and practical—and step outside into the warm breeze.
Barcelona is alive with sound and color, the hum of life on every corner a vibrant contrast to the suffocating control I’ve left behind. I take a deep breath, the scent of salt and sun filling my lungs, and flag down a cab.
The driver greets me in Spanish, his tone friendly as he lifts my suitcase into the trunk. I respond in passable Spanish, giving him the address of a boutique hotel tucked away in one of the quieter neighborhoods. It’s a place I carefully chose for its charm and anonymity, a perfect starting point for this new chapter.
As the cab winds through the streets, I let my gaze drift over the city. Winding alleys open onto bustling squares, their facades painted in vibrant hues. Clotheslines stretch between balconies, the fluttering fabric adding a touch of humanity to the urban sprawl. It’s beautiful, chaotic, and alive—a far cry from the sterile opulence of the world I left behind.
When we arrive, I step out into the narrow, cobblestoned street, the scent of fresh flowers from a nearby shop mingling with the faint aroma of coffee. The boutique hotel is exactly as I imagined—modest but chic, its whitewashed exterior dotted with trailing vines and potted plants bursting with color. A sense of relief washes over me as I approach the entrance, my suitcase trailing quietly behind me.
Inside, the decor is understated and elegant, the kind of minimalist luxury that whispers rather than shouts. The air is cool and faintly perfumed, the hum of a distant conversation and the faint tinkling of a piano adding to the ambiance. I approach the front desk with measured calm, presenting my fake passport with practiced ease.
The name Samantha Brooks rolls off my tongue, as if it’s always been mine. The clerk, a young man with kind eyes and an easy smile, doesn’t bat an eye as he scans the document and hands me the key to my room.
“Enjoy your stay,” he says, his English accented but clear.
I nod, murmuring a polite thanks before heading upstairs.
The room is small but beautiful, its wide windows letting in the golden sunlight that seems to bathe the entire city. A tiny balcony overlooks the quiet street below, the wrought iron railings adorned with climbing vines. I set my suitcase down near the bed, the soft click of the lock on the door behind me like the final seal on my escape.
For a moment, I stand there, taking in the space. The crisp white linens, the polished wooden floors, the simple elegance of it all—it feels like a world apart from everything I’ve known. I sink onto the bed, exhaling deeply as the tension I’ve been carrying for weeks begins to ease.
I reach for the burner phone, turning it over in my hands. There’s no one to call, no one who even knows where I am. For the first time in my life, I’m completely untethered. It’s exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure.
The sunlight filters through the curtains, casting soft, dappled patterns across the room. I close my eyes, letting the warmth wash over me, and allow myself a rare moment of peace. For now, I’ve won. I’m untouchable.
The quiet of the room wraps around me, a stark contrast to the chaos of the last few weeks. For the first time in what feels like forever, I can breathe without the suffocating weight of expectations pressing down on my chest. But there’s still work to do—there always is.
I pull my suitcase onto the bed and unzip it, the contents neatly packed in a way that hints at the methodical planning that brought me here.
A stack of cash sits beneath layers of clothes, wrapped in a plain envelope. It’s not an exorbitant amount, just enough to live comfortably without raising suspicion. I count it mentally as I touch the envelope—every euro accounted for, my lifeline until I can build something sustainable.
Beneath the cash are a few carefully chosen items: a sleek laptop loaded with nothing that ties back to Chloe Hart, an art supply kit, and a simple leather journal. These small tokens are the foundation of my new life, reminders that I’m not just running—I’m rebuilding.
As I unpack, my movements are deliberate, each item placed exactly where it needs to be. The clothes I’ve brought are understated and versatile—neutral tones, clean lines, nothing that screams wealth or luxury.
Blending in is crucial.
Once my suitcase is nearly empty, I sit on the edge of the bed and open my laptop. The freelance gig I secured before leaving—graphic design work for an international company—was a stroke of luck. It’s remote, pays decently, and, most importantly, requires no in-person interaction. Perfect for someone laying low.
But the real key to my plan is integration. I can’t stay hidden forever, cloistered in this hotel room. People notice what’s absent. If I’m going to remain invisible, I have to be visible enough to blend in. That’s where the art class comes in. It’s local, casual, and completely harmless—a way to ground myself in the rhythm of this new city.
I open the browser on my laptop and confirm my registration, the confirmation email sitting in my inbox like a promise of normalcy. Samantha Brooks, aspiring artist, perfectly ordinary.
Closing the laptop, I lean back on the bed, letting my head rest against the soft pillows. The ceiling above is plain white, but my mind is anything but blank. The weight of what I’ve done starts to settle in, creeping into the edges of my thoughts.
For the first time since boarding the plane, a flicker of doubt surfaces. Have I truly escaped?
I close my eyes, the question lingering in the darkness behind my lids. It should be impossible for him to find me. I planned every step meticulously, covered my tracks, and left nothing to chance. Erik Sharov may have resources, but I have determination.
Still, I can’t shake the image of his piercing blue eyes, the way they had locked on to mine that first time. There was something unsettling in his gaze—an intensity that had sent shivers down my spine. Not fear, though. Not entirely.
My lips press into a thin line as I recall that moment, the spark of excitement I hadn’t wanted to acknowledge then.
Erik wasn’t just powerful; he was magnetic. The kind of man who commanded attention without needing to ask for it. That night at the restaurant, when his gaze bored into me with unspoken challenge, I’d felt my pulse quicken.
A part of me hated it. Another part? It had thrilled me.
That’s what made him so dangerous—not just the threat he posed, but the pull he had on me. I’d recognized it early, the way his presence seemed to fill every space he entered, drawing me in even as I fought to hold my ground.
No. I sit up abruptly, shaking the thought away. I won’t let myself go there. Whatever fleeting attraction I felt, whatever spark lingered in the air between us, it doesn’t matter. He’s not the man for me, and I won’t be the woman who lets herself be caged in a life she didn’t choose.
I did what I had to.
Standing, I move to the small balcony, pushing open the glass doors and stepping outside. The street below is alive with the quiet hum of evening—couples strolling hand in hand, the faint clatter of dishes from a nearby café.
It’s a world away from the carefully curated opulence of my old life, and for the first time in a long time, I feel like I can breathe.
Leaning against the railing, I take another deep breath, letting the cool breeze wash over me. Barcelona stretches out before me, a sprawling canvas of possibility. This is where I’ll write my new story, where I’ll prove to myself that I can live on my terms.
My fingers tighten around the railing as resolve hardens in my chest. Erik may have thought I was a piece on his chessboard, but he underestimated me. He doesn’t know me—not really.
I’m stubborn too.
No matter how attractive he is, no matter how exciting the idea of matching wits with him might be, I refuse to lose myself in his world.
This is my life, and for the first time, it’s mine alone.
The sound of laughter rises from the street below, pulling me from my thoughts. I close my eyes for a moment, the weight on my chest easing slightly. Tomorrow, I’ll explore the city, attend the art class, and settle into this new existence.
If he thinks he can find me, he’s welcome to try. I’ll be ready.
I close my laptop and set it carefully on the desk, staring at the last few items in my suitcase. The mundane nature of unpacking is oddly comforting—a ritual that makes this unfamiliar space feel a little more like mine. A pair of sandals, a compact toiletry bag, and a slim paperback novel. Everything is deliberate, everything planned.
As I tuck the sandals into the closet, a sharp knock at the door shatters the calm.
My heart lurches, and I freeze mid-motion, the weight of the moment crashing down on me. My breath catches as adrenaline surges through my veins. It’s too soon. Too soon.
The plan was airtight. I left no traces, no loose ends. He couldn’t possibly have found me. Not yet.
Another knock. This time softer, less urgent.
I glance at the door, my pulse pounding in my ears. My gaze darts to the items scattered around the room—the fake passport on the desk, the burner phone charging by the bedside. I’ve been so careful, but what if—
“Senorita?” a voice calls from the other side of the door, muffled but gentle. Feminine. “Perdón, housekeeping.”
Housekeeping.
I exhale slowly, the tension in my shoulders easing, though my heart continues to race. It’s not him. Of course, it’s not him.
Moving to the door, I hesitate for a moment before unlocking it and cracking it open just enough to peer outside.
A young woman stands in the hallway, dressed in a crisp uniform with a stack of fresh towels balanced in her arms. Her smile is warm and apologetic, and her dark hair is pulled back into a neat bun.
“Sorry to disturb you,” she says in accented English, her tone earnest. “You arrived earlier than expected. The towels are for you.”
My grip on the door loosens slightly, though the tightness in my chest hasn’t completely faded. “Oh. Um, thank you.” My voice sounds stiff, awkward, but I manage a small smile as I step aside to let her in.
The maid walks in with an easy confidence, her presence filling the space with an unexpected warmth. She places the towels on the small wooden table near the bathroom and straightens, brushing her hands against her apron.
“Is everything okay?” she asks, her gaze kind but curious. “Your room, I mean. Do you need anything else?”
I shake my head quickly, feeling a little foolish for my earlier panic. “No, it’s perfect. Really. Thank you.”
Her smile widens, a touch of pride in her expression. “Good. We try to make it comfortable. It’s a quiet place—better than the big, noisy hotels in the center.”
“It’s… nice,” I say, my words halting as I struggle to ground myself again.
She pauses, studying me for a moment. “You’re traveling alone?”
The question catches me off guard, and for a second, I don’t know how to answer. Her tone isn’t prying, though—just genuinely curious, almost concerned.
“Yes,” I say finally, my voice soft. “Just me.”
She nods, as if this is perfectly normal, though something in her eyes suggests she understands more than I want her to. “You remind me of my cousin,” she says after a moment. “She’s always traveling. Says she likes the freedom. I think sometimes it’s lonely.”
The comment stings in a way I don’t expect, and my thoughts immediately drift to Elise. Elise, who would’ve laughed at the absurdity of this situation, who would’ve teased me about my “secret agent” disguise and insisted we go out for drinks the moment I landed.
Except I can’t call Elise. I can’t call anyone.
“Maybe,” I reply vaguely, my gaze dropping to the floor.
The maid seems to sense my hesitation and changes the subject with an easy grace. “If you need anything, just let me know. My name’s Lucia.”
“Thank you, Lucia.”
She nods again, her smile lingering as she heads for the door. “Have a good evening, senorita.”
As the door clicks shut behind her, the room feels a little quieter, a little emptier. I sit back down on the bed, staring at the folded towels on the table.
Lucia’s kindness was unexpected, and it reminds me of Elise in a way that makes my chest ache. Elise, who always knew how to make me feel seen. Who always had the perfect joke or the warmest hug when things felt impossible.
The thought makes the silence around me feel sharper, the weight of my isolation pressing down on me. For all the meticulous planning, for all the satisfaction of pulling off my escape, the reality of being utterly alone is starting to sink in.
I pull my legs up onto the bed, wrapping my arms around my knees as I stare at the soft glow of the bedside lamp. This is what I wanted. Freedom. A fresh start. A chance to live my life on my terms.
So why does it feel so heavy?
I shake my head, pushing the thought away. I made my choice, and I don’t regret it. Erik Sharov might have thought he could control me, but I’ve proven him wrong.
Still, the memory of his piercing gaze lingers in my mind, unshakable. It wasn’t just the intensity of it that unsettled me—it was the way it challenged me, the way it dared me to match him.
For a fleeting moment, I wonder if he’s thinking about me now.
I close my eyes, letting out a slow breath. It doesn’t matter. I’m here. I’m free.