Chapter 6
Caleb
I'm lurking in the Idaho Falls Regional Airport wearing a navy Adidas tracksuit like some kind of fucking football hooligan, complete with Ray-Bans indoors and a ball cap pulled low.
Ridiculous doesn't begin to cover it.
I look like I'm about to rob a corner shop in Manchester, not wait for a woman at an airport that services maybe six flights a day.
But when Scarletta booked a last-minute ticket to Vegas three days ago, I panicked.
Actually fucking panicked.
Not the controlled assessment of risk and strategic deployment of resources I'm known for. Not the calm calculation that's made me a billionaire and kept me alive through two decades of eliminating human predators.
No.
I lost my fucking mind.
I called in emergency security with the kind of urgency CEOs reserve for hostile takeovers and assassination attempts—not for tracking a twenty-two year old with writer's block on a spontaneous Vegas trip.
Within two hours, I'd deployed three separate tactical teams to follow her every movement. Professional surveillance operators. They had eyes on her from the exact moment she stepped off the plane in Las Vegas.
I could've handled the Vegas situation myself. Should've, probably. Except I don't have access to casino security footage, hotel systems, or the kind of street-level surveillance infrastructure Vegas runs on.
Getting it wouldn't be impossible. Nothing's impossible with enough money and the right leverage. But it would take time I didn't have, and hiring someone local meant trusting strangers with information about her.
Unacceptable.
So I threw obscene amounts of cash at professionals I've vetted personally, sat in my log mansion refreshing their encrypted reports every fifteen minutes like a fucking addict, and hated myself for it.
Now she's back.
Passengers stream through the gate—business travelers in rumpled suits, families with screaming children, college students with backpacks.
And there she is. Exiting the gate pulling a Louie Vuitton carry on. Adjusting a large black leather purse that looks like it contains everything but the secrets of the fucking universe.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I've seen the photos. I know what she did in Vegas—every salon appointment, every boutique, every dollar she finally decided to spend from the accounts I've been filling for six months.
But the photos are bullshit.
Because she's right here and my chest just caved in.
The new platinum hair catches the light and I forget how to breathe. That face—those fucking cheekbones I used to trace with my thumb, that mouth I've kissed until she couldn't think—now glossed and pink like she's someone else entirely.
Except she's not someone else.
She's more herself.
The woman I always knew was buried under all that fear and self-loathing walks toward me in a black sundress and strappy heels that make her legs look like a fantasy I don't deserve.
She's wearing sunglasses inside too, but they don't make her look like someone trying too hard not to be noticed, they make her look like someone you should look at.
Here she comes… I brace for it. The moment she recognizes me. The blow up. The tantrum at my stalking. She's close enough to touch. I don't move. Can't move.
And… she walks right past.
Doesn't even glance my direction.
And why would she?
Why the hell would she give the tracksuit-wearing asshole lurking by the arrivals gate like a fucking stalker a single moment of her time.
Every man in this airport has stopped what he's doing to gape at her.
Like she's an A-list celebrity fresh off the Walk of Fame.
And here I am, frozen like an idiot, watching her disappear toward baggage claim while my heart does something uncomfortable in my chest.
I stand there like a fucking idiot for five seconds too long.
Then I force myself to move—walking toward the exit at a measured pace, not hurrying, not panicking, just another traveler leaving the airport.
Outside, I round the corner of the terminal building and stop.
Press my back against the concrete wall.
Close my eyes.
Breathe.
My heart's pounding like I just sprinted ten miles. Like I'm standing over a corpse with blood on my hands and sirens closing in.
Except there's no threat here. No danger. No reason for my pulse to be hammering against my ribs like it's trying to break through.
It's just her.
Walking past me like I don't exist.
Which is exactly what I told her to do, isn't it? You'll have to come to me.
I said that. Meant it. Walked away from that alley believing I had the discipline to wait.
And here I am. At her fucking airport. In a tracksuit. Hiding behind a wall because seeing her walk past nearly broke me.
Christ.
I drag a hand down my face, force myself to inventory the situation like I would any other problem requiring tactical assessment.
She didn't recognize me.
The disguise worked.
I followed her to Vegas via surveillance teams, tracked her every movement for three days, and flew here to watch her walk through an airport.
This is not normal behavior.
I don't give a fuck.
I pull myself together and step away from the wall, heading back towards the baggage claim.
My steps are quick, almost frantic. I can't afford to miss a single moment—miss what she's doing, who she might be talking to, who might approach her.
The thought of someone else catching her attention makes my jaw clench tight enough to hurt.
I force myself to slow down, adopt a casual posture despite the urgency coursing through me. This isn't a board meeting I can dominate with presence alone. This is surveillance, requiring patience and invisibility.
I need to see. Need to know. Need to watch her every move like oxygen.
There are only two baggage claims for the entire airport, so there she is. Standing like she hasn't got a care in the world as suitcases slide down the conveyor.
I freeze, watching a parade of Louis Vuitton bags tumble down the conveyor belt toward Scarletta.
She lunges forward with uncharacteristic urgency, her small frame darting between other travelers as she snags one, then another.
The third—an oversized monstrosity—eludes her grasp, but then a man's tanned arm reaches past her shoulder to hoist it effortlessly from the belt.
My vision narrows, tunneling onto this unwelcome intrusion.
Every muscle in my body tightens as I analyze him—sculpted biceps straining against a fitted shirt, perfect teeth flashing in what he probably thinks is a charming smile.
The type who measures his self-worth in protein shakes and bench press maxes.
He's pushing the bag toward her now. Their fingers brush. She's looking up at him, head tilted, lips moving in what appears to be gratitude. The familiarity between them radiates like a physical force, striking me with each second I observe their interaction.
What the hell is happening here?
Do they… do they know each other?
The familiarity is unmistakable. They do. Who the hell is this guy? I'm frantically searching my brain, trying to figure it out, when he swings a backpack up on his shoulder.
The logo on the backpack reads Iron River Fitness.
Oh.
Fuck.
The gym owner. Ryan something.
I don't have access to cameras in the gym, they're on a private network with corporate level firewalls.
Any time I want eyes on her in there, I've sent in spies.
I used to have someone follow her there every day, but her routine is predictable and boring.
She blends into the machines. Stays out of the way.
Doesn't interact. So these days it's maybe once a week.
Less, actually, now that I think about it.
Did I miss something here?
Has she started a relationship with Ryan what's-his-name?
No. Impossible. She was dating Marty just three days ago.
So this is… nothing. It's nothing. Just two people in an airport…
Wait, are they walking out together? He's pulling two of her suitcases, she's pulling her carry-on and another case, and they're… yeah. They're walking out together!
What the fuck is happening here?
I stalk, careful to stay hidden in the meager crowd. Watching through the glass doors as they step into the August heat together.
Ryan positions her suitcases carefully, then straightens, saying something that makes her laugh. Not a polite laugh. A real one. Her head tilts back, blonde hair catching sunlight, and I can see her shoulders shake.
He's leaning in closer now, gesturing with his hands. Animated. Confident. The kind of casual body language that speaks of familiarity, of comfort.
She's smiling.
Not the nervous, uncertain expression she wore around Marty. Not the blank performance mask she's been wearing for six months while going through the motions of pretending to be normal.
She's genuinely fucking smiling at this man.
My jaw locks tight enough that my teeth ache.
A black Honda pulls up to the curb. Scarletta checks her phone, confirms the license plate. Ryan immediately moves to load her luggage into the trunk—all four pieces, organized efficiently like he's done this before.
Has he done this before?
How many times has he helped her with her bags? How many conversations have they had that I don't know about?
The angle's wrong. I can't read their lips. Can't hear a single fucking word over the traffic noise and distance.
Ryan closes the trunk, walks her to the passenger door. Opens it for her like a gentleman. She turns to say something—probably thank you, probably goodbye—and he responds with what looks like "see you soon."
She gets in.
The door closes.
The Uber pulls away from the curb.
And Ryan stands there watching it drive away, hands in his pockets, wearing a smile like he just won something.
I'm not sure how much time passes before I actually snap out of the fugue state watching Scarletta respond to actual flirting from a non-beta male put me in, but the airport pick-up lanes are quieter now.
I make my way to my Jeep, get in, start it up… sit there.