Ella’s Point of View
The pulse of O’Hare International Airport thrummed around me, a chaotic rhythm of hurried footsteps, rolling suitcases, and crackling gate announcements. My suitcase stood beside me, its handle cool under my fingers, my boarding pass tucked safely in my purse, a lifeline to Seattle, to the quiet haven I’d built for myself.
Shawn’s security team—three men in dark suits, their gazes sharp and unwavering—formed a silent barrier around me, their presence a shield against the fear that had haunted me in that city. Marcus’s shadow, a specter from Venice to now, felt distant, softened by Shawn’s care, his promise of safety.
I could still see his face from this morning—his sad, meaningful gaze as I left his mansion, the almost-kiss a burning ache in my chest. I touched my scarf, my long black hair spilling over my sweater, and exhaled, the pull of home warring with the regret of leaving him behind.
Chavez, the lead guard, stood closest, his buzz cut stark under the term
