Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 58987 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58987 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 295(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
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.