The voice on the other end of the line is tinny, bureaucratic, zero urgency, and probably sipping a coffee. They say something about all outbound flights being grounded and my grip on the phone goes white-hot.
"What do you mean, grounded? All private flights?"
Useless. All this money, all this power—it can move mountains of concrete and steel, but it can't move a single cloud. Every minute we’re stuck here is a minute that Leah is closing in on Della. Every second that ticks by is a second, I’m too far away to protect her.
I’m stuck in a metal tube. Pinned to the ground and caged by the sky.
The fear is a physical thing, a cold dread that crawls up my spine. The same gut punch from five years ago when she vanished. That terror of losing her. Again
I end the call with a clipped curse and slam the phone so hard that the sound echoes through the quiet hum of the cabin.
David finally speaks, deadpan as ever.
"Pacing’s not gonna scare the weather off, Dorian,"
"It's better than doing nothing," I bite back, resuming my caged march.
He stands and pours another glass of scotch, holding it out to me.
"Here. Drink this. We'll get there."
I just stare at the glass, then at him. "She's out there, David. Alone. Leah knows where she is. And I'm stuck here." My voice is shredded—pure, impotent rage, fear, the whole ugly package.
He doesn’t flinch. "Falling apart isn’t gonna help. Keep it together, Dorian! For her."
I throw back the drink in one go. It burns all the way down. Doesn’t help, but at least it’s something. He’s right—I know he is—but logic doesn’t mean squat to the panic gnawing at my gut. I stalk over to the window, glare at the endless, gray, unmoving sky.
The sky can hold me hostage for now. The weather can pin me to the ground.
But when it lets me go, Leah’s got nowhere left to run. Not from me.
* * *
Leah
The hotel bar is a study in minimalist perfection. Polished chrome, black marble, and unforgiving angles—an environment that values control over comfort. It suits me.
I sit at a secluded table, glass walls showing off San Diego glittering way out there, as if I give a damn. The vodka martini in my hand is cold, sharp, and brutally efficient. Just like my plan.
I glance at the watch on my wrist. The pieces are in motion. The waiting is almost over.
A shadow falls over my table. I glance up, and here he is: golden boy, California edition. He’s got that easy, sun-bleached confidence and a drink held loosely in one hand. His eyes make a slow, appreciative sweep of my body.
He hits me with, “A woman that beautiful shouldn’t be drinking alone.” Like he’s the first guy to ever think of that line. His voice is smooth, and he’s clearly used to getting what he wants.
For a split second, I consider it—the old cat-and-mouse. The familiar, easy game of it all. Letting him think he’s the hunter, pulling him close, then tearing him down until he’s basically begging. The thought brings a flicker of amusement, a faint echo of a thrill I used to enjoy.
But the echo fades almost instantly, leaving me stone-cold sober inside.
I take a slow sip of my martini, stare him down over the rim of the glass. I smile—sharp, not friendly.
“You’re a lovely appetizer,” I tell him, voice all velvet and razor blades, “but I’m holding out for the main course.”
He blinks, the swagger slips, and I watch the confusion flicker across that pretty face. I don’t look away. Just keep smiling ‘til he gets the message.He mutters—something probably meant to sting—and retreats back to the safety of the bar.
A small, cruel smile touches my lips as he goes. Pathetic.
Just like Dorian, in his own way. Dorian never really knew me.
