Chapter Three

Elara’s POV

I didn’t cry. 

I couldn’t afford to, especially not where anyone could see. Instead, I walked. I didn’t know where I was going, though my feet moved with purpose. The truth of my reality did not hit me until I reached the  curb. 

It was over.

Not just the marriage, every single thing had just ended. The life I had built around someone who was never meant to have me. The me I’d known was gone, I’d been Cassian Hale’s wife, the face of every gala room, the name on every goddamn polished smile. 

I took out my phone and dialed the rideshare app. As I waited for the ride, I called my housekeeper. “Maria,” I said, my voice calm, “I want you to pack the brown luggage. Just the essentials. I’ll be home in an hour.”

She hesitated before replying.  “You’re leaving, ma’am?”

I paused as I inhaled a deep breath. “Yes.” She didn’t ask why. She must have known because she had seen too much in that house to expect explanations.

When I arrived at the penthouse, I went straight to bed. I didn’t touch the closet. I didn’t even look at the vanity table, that was piled with all brands of perfumes and jewelry I had once loved. I took two sweaters, three shirts, a pair of jeans, my documents and the little box of letters my mother had left me before she died. That was it. That was all I took. 

Maria stood at the door holding her apron tightly, in front of her. Her eyes were red from crying.  “I put your favorite scarf in the front pocket,” she said softly.

I managed to throw her a weak smile. “Thank you.”

Our driver, Richard, offered to give  me a lift to the airport. I didn’t tell anyone where I was headed. I didn’t even tell myself. Cause I wasn’t sure of where I was headed to. Instead, all I did was, I simply bought the first one-way ticket out of the country and that made logical sense.

Paris.

Not because it was romantic though. I didn’t want romance, not in this phase of my life.  I wanted space instead. I wanted a world in which nobody knew my name. Somewhere I wouldn’t be talked about at charity functions, or pitied behind closed doors.

I threw a hoodie on before heading to the airport and kept my head down all the way through with no designer handbags and no branded coat like the former me would have done. At the moment I was only a woman who badly wanted to vanish.

It was only when I had gotten past through  the security and sat at my gate that it hit me I had done it. I was saying goodbye to everything I had ever known and I had no plan. No future mapped out. Just a suitcase or two and enough cash to survive on.

But I wasn’t scared.

The flight was long. I didn’t sleep. I placed my head close to the window and fixed my gaze on the clouds, in  an effort to shut out the noise in my head. Cassian’s voice still echoed from time to time. The chilly tone in which he’d said “I’ll have my lawyer wire over the final settlement.”  The painful realisation that I was nothing more than a transaction to him, stinged.

I arrived in Paris just past dawn. The airport was filled, with people moving  all around in every direction. My suitcase clacked behind me as I walked passed through customs and was directed downstairs, to the taxi lines. When I got to the terminal, I paused at a café to regain my breath.

And that’s when it happened.

I carelessly dumped my handbag on the table, next to my coffee. Though it was just for a second  so I could stretch my arms, and dig for my phone. And in that very brief, distracted instance, somebody came by and snatched it.

What had happened hadn’t even dawned on me until I was ready to pull out my wallet to pay, only to realise that it was gone.

I got to my feet quickly, as I scanned the café, my heart thumping.

“My bag…my purse.. it was right here…” I stammered in English, but the barista didn’t speak English.

I panicked as I got to realise even later that I had my phone, my passport, my credit cards and everything  in that bag.

I turned in circles, looking for someone who could plausibly be suspicious, but the crowd had just eaten them all. Helpless, I watched as the café staff shrugged in response to my shaking hands.

“I, uh… I don’t know wh…” I stammered, more to myself than to anyone.

“Hey,” breathed a voice which sounded calm and confident. I turned around and saw It was a tall man who stood on the other side of the glass, his hair stood slightly on end as though he’d neglected to run his fingers through it upon landing. His coat was unbuttoned, his scarf was loosened around his neck and he didn’t look sorry for himself, he looked focused.

“Did somebody just snatch your bag?” I nodded at him and swallowed the ball in my throat. “My purse. Everything’s in it.”

He took a quick look around, then motioned me to follow him. “Come on. We might still catch them.”

“I..I can’t..my legs..”

“You don’t have to run,” he added after a beat. “Just trust me.” The sound of his voice calmed me as I trailed behind him, through the terminal. We worked our way through throngs of travelers until we found an airport officer. He addressed them in French, rapid and direct. The only words I heard were the words camera and café. Within minutes, the officer had requested a backup.

“Stay here,” the man said to me gently, then stepped over to assist the officers in scrolling through the surveillance screen a foot away. I stood in stunned silence. Nobody had ever intervened for me in that way without questioning and hesitating. Moments later, he returned with my purse.

“Lucky,” he said, handing it to me. “When they felt they were being watched they dropped it.”

My fingers gripped the leather so hard as I searched inside. Everything was inside, intact and unharmed.

“Thank you,” I breathed. “You… I don’t even know your name.” He smiled.

“Adrian,” he said. “Adrian Thorne.”

“Elara.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Elara,” he said, his voice smooth. “Rough first day in Paris?”

I let out a shaky laugh. “You could say that.”

He looked at the little paper cup of coffee, which remained on the table. “Want a fresh one? My treat. Just as a welcome to France gift. Or perhaps a welcome back to having a purse gift.” I hesitated because I wasn’t certain but because I hadn’t felt this … I don’t know … seen in so long.

I nodded. “Sure.”

We reseated ourselves by the café’s window, this time with our bags clutched to our laps. He asked nothing too personal. He didn’t pry. Just informed me that he was home in Paris again after years as an expatriate. And how airports always made him feel on the edge of something new.

I watched him talk. I listened. And for the first time in what seemed like months, I didn’t feel like a shadow of someone else’s life.

I felt like me.

Or, at least, like I might find her there.