Julian
Iwatch her run.
She grabs her bag, her clothes barely on, her face streaked with tears and rage and betrayal. She doesn't look back or give me a chance to explain further… she just runs. The door slams behind her, and I'm left standing in the hotel room with my pants still undone.
I should let her go. That's what she wants. That's what she asked for. She made it clear—she never wants to see me again. She'd rather die alone than spend another second with me, and that makes me feel worse than I've ever felt in my life before.
But… all the feelings that I've been fighting, the ones that made me want to spill so much more to her on that balcony than I did, to pour out all the pain I've kept locked in my heart and hope she'd somehow understand or at least comfort me…
those all come rushing in. Like air filling empty lungs, I feel them all surging up inside of me, now that she's not here.
I wanted comfort. I locked away the longing for that when my mother died.
No one could ever comfort me like her, and without her, after what I'd become to try to save her, I couldn't imagine that any woman ever could.
And anyway, that would just be asking for more loss.
More pain. As much pain as I've inflicted on others, I couldn't imagine any just world would ever allow me to have any peace and happiness of my own.
But now…
I feel things for her that I've never felt before. Things I didn't even feel the one time I thought I was in love, back when I was just a stupid teenager going into the military and had no idea what the life ahead of me was going to be like.
I should let her go. But I can't. Because the moment I stop protecting her, she dies. Without me, Isabelle is on a ticking clock that will run out quickly. The mafia doesn't forgive or forget. And they sure as hell don't give up on a contract just because the target runs away crying.
They'll find her and kill her. Unless I stop them.
I stand in the empty hotel room, my chest tight, my hands clenched into fists. I stand there for ten minutes, wrestling with all the conflicting emotions inside of me, and then I move.
I dress quickly, shoving my wallet back into my jeans, and head out of the room.
I take the stairs two at a time, my mind racing through possibilities.
She's emotional. She's not thinking clearly.
She'll make mistakes—use her credit card, take a taxi that can be traced, go somewhere obvious.
She'll leave a trail, and I'll follow it.
The lobby is nearly empty when I reach it—a tired clerk at the front desk, a couple stumbling in drunk and laughing. No sign of Isabelle.
I push through the front doors and out into the Prague night. The streets are quiet—it's past two in the morning, and most of the bars have closed. A few stragglers wander past, but none of them are her.
I start walking. My phone buzzes in my hand with an alert from my network. Someone has accessed Isabelle's credit card information. The transaction is still processing, which means it just happened.
A taxi company. She took a cab. I feel the beginnings of a headache pulsing at my temples; it's going to be a hell of an effort to get to her before someone else does.
I could walk away. Give her up as a job gone wrong in more ways than one, and try to save myself.
But I know I can't. I'll spend the rest of my life unable to forgive myself if I do. If I can save her, if there's even a chance, I have to.
I have to make this one thing right.
I pull up the details, my fingers moving fast across the screen. The pickup location is three blocks from here. The destination isn't listed yet, but it will be once the ride is complete.
I start running. I can cover that in under two minutes if I push hard enough. Maybe I can catch her before the cab leaves. Maybe I can—
I round the corner and see the taillights disappearing down the street. I'm too late.
I stop, my breath coming hard, and watch the cab vanish into the night. My chest feels tight.
She's gone. But not for long.
I pull up the tracking software again and wait for the destination to populate.
It takes thirty seconds, while I stand on a dark Prague street corner and feel the weight of everything I've done crushing down on me.
The look on her face when she saw the photo—the betrayal and the horror.
The realization that I was hired to kill her.
I knew there was a chance this moment would come eventually. But actually experiencing it is worse than I imagined. I didn't just lose her trust, I lost her. The way she looked at me before—like I was someone worth falling for—is gone, replaced by disgust and rage. She'll never forgive me.
And I don't blame her.
My phone buzzes. The destination has been populated. She's headed to the airport.
I flag down a cab and give the driver the airport address, offering him double the fare if he gets me there in under twenty minutes.
He nods and pulls into traffic, and I sit in the back seat with my phone in my hand, tracking every move she makes.
The cab ride feels endless. Every red light, every slow-moving car, every second that ticks by is another second she's further away from me.
We reach the airport, and I throw cash at the driver, not waiting for change. I'm through the doors and into the terminal before the cab has even pulled away.
The airport is quiet at this hour. A few late-night flights, a handful of travelers scattered across the terminal. I scan the crowd, looking for her.
There. She's at the ticket counter, her back to me, her shoulders hunched. Even from here, I can see how hollowed out she looks, and my chest wrenches at the sight. I did that to her.
I stay back and watch as she speaks to the ticket agent.
Her hands are shaking as she passes over her passport.
The agent types something into the computer and asks a question.
Isabelle nods. I move closer, just enough to hear her destination, but not close enough for her to notice me.
I'm good at blending in, and keeping my head low and staying near others is enough for her not to see me.
She's barely paying attention to her surroundings, anyway.
The agent prints the boarding pass and hands it over. Isabelle takes it with trembling fingers, her face pale and drawn. She turns away from the counter, and I see her fully for the first time since she ran.
Her eyes are red and swollen from crying.
Her hair is a mess. Her clothes are rumpled and hastily thrown on.
She's clutching her bag to her chest like it's the only thing keeping her upright.
And the look on her face—the emptiness, the devastation—makes me want to go to her, pull her into my arms, and tell her I'm sorry.
Tell her I never meant for any of this to happen.
But I don't. It won't fix anything, and I know it will make everything worse. I let her walk past me, her eyes fixed on the floor, completely unaware that I'm ten feet away.
Then I move to the ticket counter. The agent looks up with a professional smile. "Good evening, sir. How can I help you?"
"I need a ticket on the next flight to Rome."
Her fingers fly across the keyboard. "We have a flight departing in ninety minutes. Would that work?"
"Perfect."
"Name?"
I give her one of my aliases—passport, credit card, ID—she doesn't question it, as I knew she wouldn't. She just types it in and hands me a boarding pass. "Gate B7. Boarding begins in one hour."
I take the pass and move toward security.
Isabelle is already through. She looks small and vulnerable standing there in her socks, waiting for her belongings to clear the scanner.
I go through security after her, but not so close that she'll notice.
I keep my head down and my movements casual.
Just another late-night traveler heading to Rome.
She collects her bag and shoes and disappears toward the gates.
I follow. The terminal is nearly empty. A few shops are still open, but Isabelle walks past all of them without looking, her eyes fixed straight ahead. She finds the gate and sits down in one of the plastic chairs, her bag on her lap and her boarding pass clutched in her hand.
And then she just... sits, staring at nothing, her face blank and her body rigid.
I position myself three gates down where I can see her, but she won't see me. I buy a coffee I don't want from a vending machine and sit with it cooling in my hands, watching her.
The gate agent announces boarding, and Isabelle stands.
I wait until she's through the gate and down the jetway before I move.
I board last, slipping onto the plane just before they close the doors.
I've positioned myself carefully several rows behind her, on the opposite side of the aisle.
Close enough to keep her in sight, but far enough that she won't notice me, a baseball cap and glasses on, the cap pulled down low.
The plane is half empty. Most of the passengers are business travelers or tourists heading to Rome for a long weekend.
Isabelle sits by the window in row 7, her forehead pressed against the glass, her eyes closed.
The flight attendants move through the cabin offering drinks and snacks, but Isabelle waves them away without opening her eyes.
I watch her, and I realize with a horrible, terrifying clarity that my feelings for her are worse than I could ever have imagined. I want her, I lust after her with a ferocity that is frankly unlike anything I've ever felt in my life, and… I love her.
Despite her brattiness and her clearly sheltered upbringing, the fact that she's clearly not at all cut out to be a part of the world I inhabit, despite the fact that she's spoiled and stubborn and is quite literally going to be the death of me… I love her.