THE CHASE

The morning after the gala felt like waking up from a nightmare different world. Adrian wasn't next to me.

He usually never was, My body ached from the tension of holding a smile for hours, my mind replayed Serena’s whispers on a loop, but more importantly how I didn't belong here. I really needed to find Claire, wherever Adrian was hiding her.

I don't know how long I just... sat there, till I noticed the note left on his pillow in sharp, slanted handwriting: "I'll be home early, The jet leaves at 12 PM. Do not be late, little lamb.”

I almost rolled my eyes

I dragged myself up to pack, only to find it stripped bare. All my things—the few I’d brought and the many he’d bought—had been moved to his walk-in closet. His suits and shirts hung like silent sentinels beside my dresses. The intimacy of it felt violating.

My phone, left charging on the bedside table, buzzed incessantly. The screen was a flood of notifications from Mila.

Mila: ELERA PICK UP.

Mila: WHERE ARE YOU???

Mila: I saw the news. The “honeymoon”?? What is HAPPENING?

Mila: If you don’t call me back in ONE HOUR I am burning his house down.

A pit opened in my stomach. I couldn’t involve her more than she already was. I typed a quick, vague reply. “I’m okay. It’s complicated. Will explain later. Don’t do anything.”

I put her chat in the archive, "I'll just explain later" I thought.

I hit send just as Margaret appeared in the doorway. “Miss Elera, a car will take you for final fittings at noon. Mr. Blackwood’s instructions.”

Great

The day bled away in a blur of silks and wools, of stylists murmuring about “climate-appropriate elegance.” I felt like a mannequin.

At 11 PM, I returned to find Adrian in his study, speaking in low, furious tones on a secure line. “…contain her, Rowan. I don’t care how.” He saw me and ended the call.

“Problem?” I asked, my voice flat.

“Under control,” he said, tossing his phone onto the desk. “All you had to do is look pretty, And that you do very well"

I was suddenly self conscious, the light make-up just enough to make me look airbrushed, but not enough to make me look like a billion dollar heiress.

Like Serena.

Shit.

---

At 11:30 PM, we stood in the grand foyer. A single suitcase each, though mine was filled with things he’d chosen. He was back in his armor—a charcoal travel suit, impossibly sharp. I wore tailored trousers and a cashmere sweater, feeling like a doll in a collector’s case.

His phone buzzed. He read a message, his expression turning to granite.

It was from Rowan.

I leaned over

Rowan: She’s not bluffing. Has contacts at the Tribune and two major blogs on speed dial. Threatens to release a “plea for help” if not given access. Proposing alternative containment.

Adrian typed a one-word reply: “Proceed.”

"Who's that, and What’s ‘alternative containment’?” I asked, dread coiling in my gut.

“Someone Rowan is taking on a trip,” Adrian said, pocketing his phone as the town car pulled up. “

He opened the car door for me. “Get in.”

---

The jet was a sleek, terrifying beast of brushed silver. Paparazzi flashed behind a distant fence. Adrian’s hand was on my back, guiding me up the stairs. Inside, it was all cream leather, polished walnut, and cold, quiet luxury.

Before I could even sit, he turned me to face the small, round window. The flashbulbs outside ignited like miniature stars.

“The first picture is the most important,” he murmured, his voice close to my ear. His hands settled on my shoulders. “It sets the tone for everything that follows.”

I saw the long lenses focused on us. I knew what was expected.

His touch shifted. One hand slid to my waist, the other cupped my jaw, tilting my face toward his. There was no warning, no practiced lean for a cheek kiss.

He kissed me.

It wasn’t the brief, possessive press from the gala. This was slow. Deliberate. His lips were firm and seeking, a masterful performance of deep, romantic passion meant for the zoom lenses. I was so stunned I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. The world narrowed to the scent of him, the warmth of his mouth, the shocking intimacy of the act.

Just as my hands finally came up, whether to push him away or pull him closer I didn’t know, he broke the kiss.

He didn’t go far. His forehead rested against mine, our breaths mingling. From outside, it would look like a moment of overwhelmed, loving bliss.

“Now,” he whispered, his voice a rough rasp that didn’t sound entirely acted, “they have their picture.”

He straightened, his expression smoothing into its usual impassive mask as if a switch had been flipped. He gestured to a plush seat. “Get some rest. We land in Paris at dawn.”

He retreated to a separate seating area, pulling out a laptop, immediately engrossed in a world of numbers and strategies.

I sank into the chair, my legs unsteady. I touched my fingers to my lips. They felt bruised, branded.

It was a fake.

Just for the media

But why did it feel so real?

The jet engines whined, and we began to move, thrusting forward into the velvet night. I looked out the window as the city fell away beneath us, a glittering map of the life I was leaving behind.

In the reflection of the dark glass, I saw Adrian watching me, his gaze unreadable.

We were flying toward a staged paradise.

As the jet reached cruising altitude, Adrian’s secure satellite phone rang. He answered, listened for a moment. He stood up, turning away from me, but I caught the hissed words: “Good, now keep her as far away from us as possible".

Who was that? Serena?

I tried not to think about it, for now, Adrian didn't know it yet, but my aim was to find out where my Aunt was, the reason I was in this mess.

If Adrian wasn't going to tell me,

I would do it myself.