Chapter 2: Run While You Can

—Celeste—

The rain hadn't stopped since I'd arrived in Seattle three days ago. It drummed against the windows of my cramped studio apartment like fingers tapping impatiently, matching the rhythm of my racing heart every time footsteps echoed in the hallway outside.

'Paranoid,' I told myself, stirring honey into my chamomile tea. 'You're just being paranoid.'

But paranoia had kept me alive this long. Paranoia had gotten me out of New York before Killian's lawyers could freeze my accounts, before his investigators could track my movements, before anyone realized that Mrs. Killian Hart had vanished into thin air along with her secrets.

I pulled the oversized cardigan tighter around my shoulders and settled onto the threadbare couch, watching the storm rage over Elliott Bay. From here, I could see the Space Needle piercing the gray sky, its lights blinking steadily through the downpour. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. Flash.

Reliable. Predictable. Everything my life wasn't anymore.

My phone buzzed against the coffee table, and my blood turned to ice. Only three people had this number, and Marcus Chen never called this late. Neither did Dr. Sarah Martinez, the local physician who'd agreed to provide my prenatal care under my new identity.

'Celeste Whitmore,' I reminded myself. That's who I was now. A widow from Portland who'd moved to Seattle to heal from her husband's tragic car accident. The story was simple, tragic enough to discourage questions, and completely fictional. Marcus had helped me craft it, along with the paperwork that made it seem real.

The caller ID showed a number I didn't recognize. My finger hovered over the decline button, but something made me answer.

"Hello?"

Silence. Then, a man's voice, smooth as silk and twice as dangerous: "Running away doesn't suit you, sweetheart."

The phone slipped from my numb fingers, clattering onto the hardwood floor. I scrambled to pick it up, my hands shaking so violently I could barely grip the device.

"Who is this?"

But the line was dead.

I stared at the phone screen, my reflection ghostly in the black surface. Someone had found me. Someone knew where I was, knew I was running. But who? And more importantly—*how?*

My mind raced back to that terrible night two weeks ago, the night that had changed everything.

I'd been coming home from another one of Dr. Harrison's appointments—the third doctor I'd seen, desperate for a different answer. But the blood test results were the same. Positive. Undeniably, irrevocably positive.

The penthouse elevator had carried me up to the second floor in silence, my head spinning with the weight of the secret growing inside me. How could I tell Killian? How could I look him in the eye and say the words that would complicate everything?

But when the elevator doors opened, I heard her laugh first.

Evelyn Sinclair's musical giggle drifted from the living room, followed by Killian's familiar chuckle. I'd frozen in the marble foyer, my purse slipping from my shoulder to crash onto the floor.

"—missed having you around," Evelyn was saying, her voice thick with emotion. "These past few months with you being so distant have been difficult. I know the marriage arrangement has been hard on you."

"I know," he answered lazily.

I'd stood there in my own home, listening to my husband dismiss any possibility of us having a real marriage, and felt something inside me crumble. He thought I'd only married him for money, for security. He had no idea that somewhere along the way, I'd fallen desperately in love with him.

That's when I'd started planning my escape.

The pregnancy test burning a hole in my purse became my catalyst. This child—our child—deserved better than growing up in a home where their mother was seen as nothing more than a business obligation, where love was considered impossible.

A sharp knock at my apartment door yanked me back to the present. My blood turned to slush.

"Ms. Whitmore?" A woman's voice, unfamiliar. "I'm sorry to bother you so late, but I'm with the property management company. There's been a water leak in the unit below yours."

I crept toward the door on silent feet, pressing my eye to the peephole. A middle-aged woman in a maintenance uniform stood in the hallway, clipboard in hand, looking completely ordinary. But something about her stance—too alert, too watchful—set off every alarm bell in my head.

"I'll deal with it in the morning," I called through the door.

"I'm afraid it can't wait. The damage is quite extensive."

My hand moved instinctively to my stomach. 'Not yet,' I thought desperately. 'Please, not yet. I need more time.'

"I'm not dressed. Come back tomorrow."

The woman's shadow lingered in the hallway for what felt like an eternity. Then, finally, I heard footsteps retreating toward the elevator.

I slumped against the door, my heart hammering so hard I was sure it would wake the neighbors. This was supposed to be my sanctuary, my fresh start. Seattle was three thousand miles from New York, a city big enough to disappear in, diverse enough that no one asked too many questions about the quiet woman who paid her rent in cash and kept to herself.

Just like I'd planned.

But if they'd found me here, I wasn't safe anywhere.

I grabbed my laptop and began researching bus schedules, train routes, anything that could get me out of here by dawn. My bank account—the one Marcus had helped me set up under my new identity—had enough for maybe two more moves. After that, I'd be on my own with nothing but the clothes on my back and a growing belly.

The baby fluttered inside me, so faint I might have imagined it. But I didn't imagine it. At eleven weeks, my little secret was making their presence known, reminding me that this wasn't just about my survival anymore.

I closed the laptop and walked to the window, staring out at the storm rolling over Puget Sound. The city lights reflected off the water like scattered diamonds, beautiful and cold. Somewhere out there, people were hunting me. Maybe Killian's people, maybe someone else entirely. It didn't matter. What mattered was keeping this child safe from a world that would see them as nothing more than leverage, a bargaining chip in games played by people who'd forgotten what it meant to love something more than power.

My phone rang again. Same unknown number.

This time, I answered immediately.

"What do you want?"

"To talk," the voice said smoothly. "You're making this much harder than it needs to be."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course you do, Mrs. Hart. Or should I say, Ms. Whitmore? Really, Celeste, did you think a fake ID and a new hair color would be enough?"

My blood turned to ice water. They knew everything. My real name, my fake one, probably my exact location.

"Who sent you?"

"Does it matter? What matters is that you have something people want. Something valuable."

*The baby. They knew about the baby.

"I don't have anything," I lied.

"We both know that's not true. The question is: are you going to make this easy, or do we have to do this the hard way?"

I ended the call and immediately began packing. Everything I owned fit into two small suitcases—a depressing testament to how completely I'd erased my old life. But it made running easier.

Twenty minutes later, I was sliding out the back exit of my building, hood pulled up against the rain. The bus station was six blocks away. If I could make it there, catch the 2 AM to Portland, I might have a chance.

But as I hurried through the empty streets, I couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching me. Every shadow looked like a threat, every parked car a potential danger.

By the time I reached the bus station, I was soaking wet and shivering uncontrollably. The lone clerk looked up from his newspaper with mild curiosity.

"Ticket to Portland," I said, sliding cash across the counter.

"Bus doesn't leave for another hour, miss. You can wait inside if you want."

I shook my head. "I'll wait outside."

Standing in the rain, watching every car that passed, I pressed my hand to my stomach and made a silent vow. These people—whoever they were—could chase me to the ends of the earth. They could make my life hell, could take everything I had left.

But they would never, ever touch my child.

"You'll never touch my child," I whispered into the storm, the words carried away by the wind like a prayer. "I swear it."