17.
She couldn’t breathe. She had to leave. This is so sick.
Even the air in the safe house felt like it was touched by him.
The lights hummed. The walls were too white.
She moved like a ghost in someone else’s life, grabbing what little she owned—two dresses, a long coat, a brush, the perfume bottle she once swore she’d throw away but never could.
The flight was booked. One-way to Chicago.
Departing the next morning at 9:10 AM.
She stared at the screen of her phone after the confirmation email came through.
Her fingers trembled. Her knees buckled.
And for the first time in days, she let herself collapse into the chair near the window, watching the city blink in and out of stormclouds like a breathing, wounded machine.
That night, she couldn’t sleep. Not even for a minute.
Her body refused to shut down. Every sound made her flinch.
Every creak in the hallway made her curl into herself.
She lay in bed fully dressed, the luggage zipped beside her, one hand wrapped around the handle like a lifeline.
Her mind kept playing his voice on a loop “Be mine willingly… or I will take you screaming.”
Her stomach twisted with dread and nausea.
But when morning finally came blue and bruised across the horizon she stood.
She moved to the kitchen and made herself breakfast. Toast. Cold coffee.
A single boiled egg.
It tasted like cardboard, but she ate.
She had to. There was no strength in starvation.
No escape in fragility.
She changed into a long cotton dress, tied her hair up in a long braid, slipped on her boots, and zipped her coat.
She handed the keys to the shelter manager at the desk an older woman with kind eyes who didn’t ask questions.
Isolde whispered, “Thank you for everything.”
The woman nodded.
And then she walked out into the cold, overcast morning.
She hailed a taxi with a shaking hand.
8:12 AM – Charles de Gaulle International Airport
The terminal buzzed with the low hum of travelers families, businesspeople, sleepy-eyed couples clutching coffee and passports.
Isolde clutched her coat around her and wheeled her luggage toward check-in.
Her movements were stiff, small, almost invisible.
The agent took her passport with a tired smile.
“Flight 902 to Chicago. You’re early. Boarding will begin at 8:45.
”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
The boarding pass was placed in her hand.
She moved to the waiting area, choosing a chair farthest from the windows.
Farther from eyes. She tucked into herself and pulled a random fashion magazine from her bag, pretending to read.
Each second felt like a countdown.
8:48 AM – Gate 43
Her boarding group was called.
She stood. Heart pounding.
The flight crew smiled as she stepped through the bridgeway.
The head air hostess, a tall woman with sleek black hair and a crisp red scarf at her neck, greeted her.
“Welcome aboard, Miss Isolde.”
She nodded silently, barely managing a smile.
Seat 14A. Window.
She slid into the leather seat and kept her bag close.
She glanced out at the tarmac.
Clouds rolled in.
But she was getting out.
She was finally getting out.
9:05 AM
The announcement crackled overhead “Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the delay in takeoff. There has been a hold request from air traffic control due to security protocol. Please remain seated.”
Isolde stiffened.
She rang for the hostess.
“Yes, Miss?”
“Why the delay?” Her voice cracked slightly.
The woman offered a placid, professional smile.
“We received a coded priority hold from the airport’s upper administration.
Likely a security sweep. Nothing to worry about.
”
Isolde’s blood froze. That wasn’t normal.
Her fingers gripped the magazine tighter.
9:12 AM – Airport VIP Entrance
Three matte black luxury vehicles tore down the runway access road in seamless formation, escorted by two airport police SUVs with sirens off and lights silently flashing.
The lead car an obsidian Mercedes-Maybach with bulletproof glass and gold accents slowed only when it reached the sealed perimeter.
Dante sat in the back seat. Immaculate.
Dressed in an obsidian turtleneck and tailored wool coat, his face shadowed beneath sleek black sunglasses.
His jaw was freshly shaven. His hair, swept back with a touch of controlled chaos.
His presence exuded wealth, danger, and unspeakable authority.
He held a phone to his ear.
“Tell the airport director I want all flights grounded for twenty minutes. I’ve paid for more.
”
“Yes, Mr. Valencourt,” came the fearful voice on the other end.
He hung up.
Dante Valencourt’s convoy tore down the airport highway like a pack of wolves three black Maybachs with tinted windows, sirens screaming.
Inside the lead car, Dante thumbed a live feed from Elara’s burner phone.
His mole at the safe house had sent her flight details the moment she’d booked them.
“Faster,” he ordered his driver, ice clinking in his crystal tumbler of bourbon.
The Maybachs swerved onto the tarmac, bypassing security gates with ease.
Airport police saluted as they passed Dante owned their pensions.
At Gate 43, the Boeing 737 sat dormant, its engines silent.
Dante stepped out, his charcoal Brioni suit cutting through the dawn mist like a blade.
His men fanned out behind him six giants in tailored black, earpieces glinting.
The airport manager, a sweaty man named Harris, scurried forward.
“M-Mr. Valencourt! We’ve grounded the flight, as requested—”
Dante didn’t glance at him.
“The girl. Seat 14A.”
“Y-Yes, sir. This way.”
Inside, the terminal staff cleared a path.
People stared. Whispers chased behind him.
Who is he?
He shut down the airport.
He’s the man who owns the sky.
9:19 AM – Inside the Plane
Isolde sat with the magazine open in her lap, her heart in her throat.
The delay. The silence.
The flight attendants were murmuring in the galley.
And then...The cabin door opened.
She glanced up.
And froze. Six figures entered.
The first man wore a long black coat.Gloves.
No face visible only dark sunglasses and the air of command so thick it smothered.
He turned toward her row.
And walked.
Each step deliberate.
Isolde blinked.
And then—He lifted her.
In one clean, powerful motion, he bent and scooped her into his arms bridal style before she could even scream.
The magazine slipped from her fingers.
Her knees buckled as he stood with her.
“Stop—! What are you doing? Let me go—!”
People gasped.
Phones lifted. But the crew said nothing.
No one stopped him.
But a businessman lunged to help, but one of Dante’s men cracked a pistol against his temple.
“Sit. Down,” the thug growled.
No one else moved.
The airport manager behind him only nodded.
Dante carried her out of the plane, her kicks and sobs doing nothing to loosen his grip.
“Who are you—!?” she screamed, fighting to see his face.
He didn’t answer.
Outside, the wind howled.
And near the Maybach, he whispered to her “I told you not to run.”
Her eyes widened.
She knew that voice.
“You—!”
But she didn’t finish.
A needle slid into her neck—so quick, so gentle it felt like a breath.Her world tilted.
She gasped.
And fell against his chest, unconscious.
He laid her inside the back seat, her braid spilling over his lap.
The door shut.
And the convoy vanished into the fog, while the plane sat still behind them waiting for a girl who would never board.