Lauren

Chapter 4: Lauren

Reese

“Where the hell are you, Reese? I’ve been waiting here forever!”

Lauren’s voice cut through the phone like a siren, piercing my skull with that patented high-pitched urgency. I yanked the device from my ear, feeling my jaw tighten as my grip on the wheel locked into place.

The highway ahead blurred with red brake lights and distant headlights as I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and exhaled slowly through my nose.

“If you’d stop calling every three seconds,” I said deliberately, my tone calm though the tension in my chest simmered, “I might actually be able to focus on driving and get there in one piece.”

But my words seemed to set her off.

“We had an emergency landing in Chicago an hour ago, Reese! An hour ago! You were supposed to be there waiting when my plane landed! Why am I stranded here alone? Why would you leave me here?!”

I inhaled slowly through my nose, letting the air fill my lungs as though it could stop me from losing it completely. “I’m. On. My. Way.”

“Well hurry up!” Her voice pitched even higher, bordering on theatrics. “I’m scared.”

Of what? Oxygen?

“There are so many people here,” she continued breathlessly. “Someone looked at me weird. One of my nails broke. And my hair is literally falling out because of the cabin pressure. And I think I gained ten pounds from the cake they served—”

“I’m coming to pick you up,” I snapped, cutting her off. I didn’t need the ongoing catalog of misfortunes. Not today.

Her voice softened instantly. “Alright, baby. I can't wait to see you—”

I hung up before she could add another complaint.

The car felt too small for my irritation.

I let my head tilt back against the headrest for a moment, just long enough to breathe out a long, controlled exhale. Lauren was lucky she was a woman. If she weren’t, I’d have handed her a reason to invest in orthopedic equipment and a lifetime supply of ice packs.

Ever since I agreed to this arrangement—this absurd, strategic, mutually beneficial prison sentence—my life has been an endless string of interruptions, calls, and manufactured crises.

I had thought I could manage it, handle it all. But I was wrong.

Lauren White is a nightmare.

The tapes. The leverage. The revenge. None of it mattered now except as an anchor I couldn’t cut loose. It seemed like I'd never be rid of her, no matter how hard I tried.

Six months ago, I moved out of the manor.

Technically, I still had obligations, still had appearances to maintain. But I’d taken a penthouse in Florida.

An hour away isn’t much distance geographically. But psychologically, it’s everything.

One hour from that suffocating place. One hour from my father’s shadow. Not far, but far enough. Enough to breathe. Enough to think.

Still, Lauren treats the penthouse like it’s her personal annex.

I would bet every cent I owned that there had been no emergency landing in Chicago. No mechanical issues. No dramatic pilot announcement.

She just wanted attention. Or worse—she just wanted to be near me.

I pulled into the airport parking lot and killed the engine. Then I sat for a moment longer than necessary, staring at nothing, feeling everything.

My phone buzzed relentlessly. Lauren. I declined the call. Another buzz. And another. I just kept declining.

By the time I stepped out of the car, my phone showed thirty-seven missed calls. Thirty-seven.

“Jesus Christ, Lauren. Don't you ever stop?”

Because optics were necessary, I picked up the bouquet of red roses I had bought on the way—overpriced, dramatic, absurd.

She’d demanded them. “Bring flowers so everyone knows you care,” she had said. I had complied because sometimes it was easier to play along than to fight.

I stepped out of the car and into the terminal, the air-conditioned blast hitting me in sharp contrast to the Florida humidity.

The airport was alive, loud, a constant sound of rolling luggage, shouting children, and repeated announcements over the speakers.

I scanned arrivals while dialing Lauren again. I couldn't see her anywhere.

No exaggerated Hollywood blowout. No designer luggage explosion. No high-pitched screech announcing my failure as a fiancé.

It rang. No answer.

Something was off. Lauren never ignored my calls when she knew I was nearby.

I turned, eyes sweeping the departures section. Nothing. I dialed again. Straight to voicemail.

The irritation in my chest tightened. If this was another one of her performances, a test to see if I would panic, I was done.

I would personally see her returned to her father tonight and I'd take the pains of telling him that this arrangement was over.

And then I heard it.

A woman’s voice, sharp and strained, cutting through the dull roar of the airport. “Let go of me! I’m not going with you!”

My body froze instantly. That voice was familiar. Too familiar.

A small crowd had gathered near the departure gates. Officers moved toward the commotion, cautious but alert. My first instinct: this is Lauren. It fits. But no. The cadence, the timbre—it was different.

Curiosity and instinct propelled me forward. Bouquet in hand, I edged closer, scanning the crowd. And then I saw her.

Elizabeth. The girl I had assumed I would never see again.

She stood in the middle of the chaos, hair slightly disheveled, cheeks flushed with fury. One officer held her arm—not roughly, but firmly enough to restrain her.

And gripping her arm with white-knuckled authority was an older woman, face hard with fury.

“Lizzie, stop this nonsense,” the woman hissed. “You are coming home with me. Right now!”

Elizabeth pulled her arm free, defiance in every line of her body. “I said I’m not going with you.”

Her voice trembled—strained but unbroken.

Something in my chest shifted. Not adrenaline, not surprise, but something heavier. I hadn’t expected to see her again. Not now. Not here. Not like this.

“She’s my daughter,” the woman spat at the officers. “She’s confused. Emotional. She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” Elizabeth countered.

The officers exchanged glances, uncertain.

“Ma’am,” one of the officers was saying calmly, “if she’s an adult, we can’t force her to leave unless there’s cause—”

“She’s my daughter!” the woman snapped.

Elizabeth’s jaw clenched. “Being my mother doesn’t mean you own me or that you can sell me to the highest bidder!”

“Lizzie!” The woman spat. “Better get your things and let's go home!”

Elizabeth yanked her arm again. “I said I’m not going with you!”

Her mother’s gaze hardened. “You will not embarrass this family further. Get in the car.”

“I’d rather die.”

Her mother’s hand lifted again, this time not just to grab. It was to strike.

I didn’t think. I just moved immediately. And in two strides I was between them, catching the woman’s wrist mid-air.

Her eyes snapped to mine. Indignation, shock, disbelief, all rolled into one. The contact startled her. She looked up at me. “And you are?” she demanded.

I held her gaze evenly. “Someone who doesn’t appreciate public assault, madam.”

Slowly, I turned fully. And there Elizabeth was.

Those wide, furious eyes. The defiance. The tremor she tried to hide. Shock washed over her face, followed by disbelief, then a flicker of something I couldn’t name.

Fear? Relief? Recognition?

“Reese?” she breathed.