Chapter 22
CHASING BUTTERFLIES
There is running from the past… and racing to save the future
Della
I hit the sand, and for a terrifying second a wall of solid muscle looms over me.
Strong hands grab my arms to steady me—but the grip is too tight, too much like the past.
My heart is pounding. My vision tunnels. The ocean, the sky, everything is a blur.
Andy…
Everything goes dark. The sharp tang of fear floods my system and my chest caves with the memory, a scream clawing at my throat.
“I’m so sorry—shit, are you okay?”
The man’s voice is startled, not cruel as he quickly stands. I shake my head. A hand appears in my line of sight, steady, open and I blink, forcing my breath to slow, to separate now from then.
He’s just a jogger. Dressed in dark running gear, phone in hand, earbuds dangling loose. His expression is worried, not menacing. His eyes—hazel, almost kind—search my face.
“I’m sorry! I wasn’t looking—I was checking my phone—are you alright?”
I nod. “I’m fine,” I manage, my voice a raw whisper.
I push myself up, ignoring his offered hand, and brush the sand from my dress. My pulse is still a wild animal against my ribs.
He hesitates, then backs up, apologizing once more before jogging away, already swallowed by distance.
The moment should end there. Just a simple accident. But it doesn’t. The echo of it remains, curling in my gut, a warning I can’t quite name.
I press a hand against my chest and force myself toward Silvia’s porch. My bare feet leave damp prints across the sand, the wind catching in my hair like ghost fingers.
I tell myself to shake it off, but my body is still braced for danger.
One step forward, even if my legs are still shaking.
By the time I sink onto the porch steps, I take a deep breath, scroll to Greg’s number and press call. He answers on the second ring, his voice brisk, professional.
“Della, good to hear from you. Is everything ok?”
“Greg, hi.” My voice wavers, and I force a small breath before pushing on. “Yes, thank you. I just wanted to let you know… I’d like to take my postponed leave. Effective immediately.”
There’s a pause, the faint rustle of papers on his end.
“Of course. It’s actually the best thing to do. HR has already started the petition process regarding your transfer. You shouldn’t be working while that’s ongoing anyway. Once it’s approved, you’ll need to return home for the embassy stage, but we’ll guide you through everything.”
Return home. The words tighten something in me. I glance at the ocean, at the endless horizon, and shake my head.
“Thank you, Greg,” I murmur. “For everything. I’ll be in touch soon.”
“Della, wait!” His voice sharpens, almost urgent. “Where are you? Mr. Marshall called asking about you.”
My stomach twists. The image of Dorian—pacing, searching, calling—burns behind my eyes. I hesitate a second too long before answering.
“I’m in San Diego,” I say quietly. “With a friend.”
Greg exhales, relief mingled with curiosity. “Alright. But are you… okay? What’s going on between you two?”
I press a hand against my temple, willing the tension away. His concern is genuine, but I can’t unravel this story now.
“I’m fine, Greg. Really. Thank you for being so understanding.” I force a brightness into my tone that feels like splinters. “I have to go.”
I hang up before my voice can betray me. The screen goes black in my hand, reflecting back a faint, tired version of myself.
The next call is harder. Alexandra. My anchor, my Sorelina. She picks up almost instantly.
“Della! Finally! Where are you? What happened?”
Her voice alone breaks me a little. “I’m in San Diego. With Silvia.” I pause, fighting the lump in my throat. “I… I had to get away from Chicago.”
“You mean, away from Dorian?” she presses gently.
“Yeah… I need to clear my head and process everything that has happened. When I’m near him, I can’t think—memories and feelings come rushing in like a category five tornado. But you know what? I finally took your advice.”
I can hear the smile in her voice. “Really? Which piece of my infinite wisdom did you finally listen to?”
“I’m starting therapy. Silvia gave me a number and… I called.”
“Della…” her breath catches, warm with relief. “I’m so proud of you. So happy for you.”
“And, there’s more.” My fingers twist in my lap. “I’m applying for the work visa. Greg offered a position at the headquarters and I will go for it. I want to build a future. Something mine. Not because of Dorian. For me.”
Silence—then a soft laugh that’s half joy, half tears.
“Wow, Sorela. This is huge. You dreamed of this since college.”
“Yes,” I whisper. “I did. And now—it’s time.”
“If this is what you need, then do it. But promise me you’ll be careful. Promise you’ll call.”
“I promise.”
Before I can say more, a sudden commotion filters through her line—raised voices, the distinct crash of something breaking, muffled shouting. My heart jumps.
“What’s going on? Are you okay? Sorelina?” I ask while the shouting on the other side is growing louder.
“Yeah—yeah, it’s nothing. Just Javier being clumsy. Don’t worry,” Her tone shifts, tight, as if she’s covering the phone. “Listen, I have to go. I love you.”
“I love you too, Sorelina—”
I stare at the phone, the silence on the other end a hollow echo in my ear.
My chest is a tangle of contradictions—lighter for having shared my truth, yet heavier with a new, sharp worry for her. A wave of helplessness washes over me. She’s an ocean away, and the thought of not knowing when I’ll see her or my niece again is a sudden, sharp ache.
A mental note forms, sharp and clear: Call her back tomorrow. Don't let it go.
Trauma leaves instincts sharper than knives. And my instincts are screaming that the sound I heard wasn't clumsiness. It was violence.
The sun is sliding lower, casting the beach in bruised gold. I lift my eyes, searching instinctively for movement. The jogger is gone. Only shadows linger now, stretching long across the sand.
I wrap my arms around myself and retreat deeper into the porch, the ocean’s song behind me, my phone warm in my hand.
For the first time in years, I’ve taken a step towards my dream.
Just then, a single butterfly detaches itself from the shadows. A creature of impossible beauty and a surprising, unyielding will. Its fragile wings are a promise against the twilight. It stays for a moment, then vanishes into the dusk.
* * *
Leah
The air in the San Diego hotel suite is chilled to a precise, clinical cold I relish.
Twenty floors below, the city glitters like a handful of cheap jewels; up here there is only silence, glass, and the clean geometry of modern furniture.
I pour gin over ice. The cubes clink like shattering glass—small shards of sound—and watch the door. My anger is no longer a chaotic fire; it has cooled into something harder, sharper. A diamond forged in the pressure of humiliation.
Right on time, a soft knock.
I open the door to two men dressed in dark, unassuming suits. My father’s ghosts, the quiet instruments of his will, now mine to command. The older one, stone-faced with grey at his temples, nods once. The younger one’s eyes are empty, watchful. They are professionals, not thugs. Perfect.
“Come in,” I say, gesturing them toward the living area. They don’t sit. They wait, hands clasped, their stillness a testament to their efficiency.
I don’t waste time on pleasantries. I remain standing, a queen addressing her court.
“Target: Della Toma. Location: private beach house near Sunset Cliffs. She is staying with a friend.” I slide a tablet across the marble coffee table, displaying a picture of Della and a map with a photo of the house Julian sent.
“Access from the beach side, tomorrow night. I want it to be clean. Undetectable.”
The older man studies the image on the screen.
“Desired outcome?”
“A tragedy.” I say, a cold smile on my lips. “A young woman, overwhelmed by grief, takes her own life. The cliffs at Sunset Cliffs Natural Park are notoriously beautiful and dangerously accessible. A fall. A note left behind. Neat, tidy, and utterly heartbreaking.”
His gaze remains neutral, but he nods in understanding.
“We handle the acquisition and the staging. The note?”
“I will take care of it,” I say, my voice dropping.
The younger man’s jaw tightens. “What about the friend?”
“Irrelevant. Keep her out of the way—quiet, contained, but breathing. I don’t need more noise than necessary.” My voice is effortless, the cruelty clinical.
“You secure the location and bring Della to the cliffs. You set the stage.”
I pause, letting the weight of my next words settle in the sterile air.
“But the final act is mine,” I say the words a soft, venomous promise. “I want her to know exactly who is removing her from the board.”
This is where the plan becomes truly mine.
A flicker crosses the younger man’s face at my words. Good. It shows they understand the theater.
I want to see her face when the hope finally drains from it. I want to be the last thing she sees in this world. Dorian thinks he can build a new life with her, that he can find happiness in the ruins of my own plans. What a fool.
“Is that clear?”
The older man gives a single, sharp nod. “Crystal.”
“Good.” I turn toward the window, my reflection a pale, composed ghost against the glittering city. “You have your instructions. I expect a full report on her movements by morning. Now, get out.”
The men leave. I tap the screen for tide charts and cliff access points, running the variables, I will use until the plan fits like a glove.
The California dusk has painted the horizon in molten fire. Appropriate. A burning sky for what’s coming.
Shadows, sorrow, and sudden ends.
* * *
Dorian
The sun is high—midday—but my office feels like midnight. I haven’t slept. Not a minute. Every time I close my eyes, I see Della’s face, the fragile hope in her eyes swallowed by the shadows I let chase her.
A day and a sleepless night passed since Della’s message, and the silence is a slow, grinding torture. The half-empty bottle of scotch on my desk is a testament to a night spent wrestling with ghosts and the raw, gnawing fear that I’ve already failed her again.
The door opens, and David strides in. He looks exhausted, his jaw tight, but his eyes are sharp with grim purpose. He’s not here to talk; he’s here with a verdict. He places a tablet on my desk without a word.
“You have to see this,” he says. No preamble.
I gesture him closer. “What is it?”
“Leah,” he says, his eyes locking on mine. “When I came in for our meeting yesterday, I saw her with Julian.”
A muscle jumps in my jaw. “Julian?” The eager, devoted assistant I hired a year ago.
“Something was off,” David continues, his voice low and urgent. “She had him cornered, gripping his arm in the kitchenette. The look in his eyes… It ate at me all night.”
A bitter taste fills my mouth. “Show me.”
“I pulled the feeds this morning. Whole sections were wiped clean. He even tried to wipe the server, the coward.” David says, pulling a chair closer. “But erasing isn’t the same as destroying. Took me hours, but I to recovered them.”
He taps the screen.
The image is from the small conference room.
Last week. The angle is from a hidden corner camera.
It shows Leah, and it shows Julian. But they aren’t talking.
My blood runs cold as I watch my own assistant, the boy I trusted with every detail of my life, worshiping at the feet of the woman who tried to destroy it.
The betrayal is a physical blow, but it’s not what makes my heart stop.
“There’s another one,” David says, his voice tight. He swipes to the next file.
It’s the kitchenette. Yesterday morning. The quality is grainy, the sound nonexistent, but the image is brutally clear. I watch Leah’s predatory rage, Julian’s terror. I see him fumble for his phone and show her the screen. My blood turns to ice as I realize exactly what he is showing her.
“He gave her Della’s location,” I state, the words a dead weight in the room.
David’s face is grim. He pulls up another screen—a flight manifest.
“It’s worse, Dorian. Leah booked a one-way ticket to San Diego yesterday afternoon, right after she left here. She’s already there.”
The room stills. Leah is hunting Della. And I led her right to the door.
For a single, silent moment, the world stops. The rage, the guilt, the terror—it all collapses inward into a single point of cold, diamond-hard focus. The time for patience is a luxury I no longer have.
I turn, leaving David at the screen, and stride back to my desk. My hands are steady as I pull out my phone, dialing a number I haven’t used in years. The storm in my chest is no longer chaotic; it is a cold, controlled singularity of purpose.
“It’s Marshall,” I say, my voice flat steel. “I need the jet. Wheels up in an hour. Flight plan San Diego.”
“I’m coming with you.” David says pulling out his phone.
I grab my keys and my jacket, my movements sharp. My chest is a cage too small to contain the fury tearing through me. All I hear is my own pulse, pounding like war drums.
We walk out of my office, our steps fast and purposeful. As we pass the assistants' area, I see him.
Julian.
He’s at his desk, head down, absorbed in his work.
I stop. The world turns silent around me.
David pauses a few feet ahead, watching.
I walk slowly, deliberately, to Julian’s desk. He looks up, and the color drains from his face when he sees the look in my eyes. He starts to stand, to stammer an excuse.
I lean down; my voice a low, venomous whisper meant only for him.
“You… snake.”
My stare pins him, sears him, strips him bare.
His breath hitches. Before he can react, I snap my fingers at the two men in black stationed by the elevator.
“Take him,” I say, my voice devoid of all emotion. “No phone, no computer, no contact. Keep him in the security room. He breathes. Nothing more. Not until you hear from me.”
Julian’s eyes are wide with pure terror as two guards flank him, lifting him from his chair.
They escort him away without a sound. It’s not a scene; it’s a silent, bloodless execution of my authority. A necessary precaution.
We don’t break stride as we head for the elevator.
David looks at me, the question in his eyes. “Dorian…”
I press the button, the doors sliding open. As we step inside, my voice is the promise of a reckoning.
“She thinks she can hurt Della to get to me. She’s right.”
I pause and turn to David. “But I swear to you, David… that’s the last mistake she’ll ever make.”