Then lifted my hands.
Slow. Certain.
“I will.”
Ethan exhaled quietly in relief.
Dario’s hand squeezed mine gently.
The car continued moving through the dark highway, carrying me away from the house that had held my marriage—and my heartbreak.
I closed my eyes.
Let the rhythm of the engine steady my breathing.
Let distance separate me from the man who had once been my husband.
For the first time in months—
I was moving toward something that might resemble safety.
We soon arrived at the private airfield — it looked less like an airport and more like a fortified military zone.
Floodlights blazed overhead, cutting across the tarmac in harsh white beams that erased every shadow and replaced it with something sharper—something exposed.
As our convoy rolled through the reinforced chain-link gates, my eyes adjusted slowly to the scale of security surrounding us.
At least a hundred armed men.
Black tactical gear.
Rifles held low but ready.
Earpieces blinking faint blue against tense faces.
They weren’t standing randomly.
They were positioned in structured formations—two disciplined lines flanking the asphalt path that led straight to the waiting aircraft, clearing space while controlling every possible angle.
Perimeter secured.
Sniper vantage points occupied.
Vehicles inspected.
Nothing moved without being watched.
The jet parked at the far end of the runway was impossible to miss—a sleek Gulfstream G700 painted matte black, its engines already running with that deep, steady growl that vibrated through my chest.
Ready for immediate departure.
No delays. No vulnerability.
No chance of another ambush.
My stomach tightened at the sight of it.
The last time we tried to leave California, we had believed we were protected too.
