Liam’s POV:
I took the stairs two at a time, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. The cab had barely stopped moving before I was out the door, racing toward Ava’s building like the kind of man I never let myself be—disheveled, breathless, and one wrong word away from losing it entirely.
I’d never run like this before. Not in years.
Not for a deal, not for a disaster, not even for death.
But now I was tearing down the street like I could somehow stop time from doing what it always did—slipping away with everything that mattered.
Ava.
She was gone. I felt it, even before I reached the apartment.
Still, I rang the bell. Once. Twice.
Then I pounded my fist against the door, harder than I meant to, uncaring that the hallway echoed with the sound.
I was about to kick the goddamn thing in when someone behind me cleared her throat.
“Are you planning to break that down?” a familiar voice asked, sharp and unimpressed.
I turned.
Isabella.
Hair windblown, hoodie zipped up over a tank top, plastic grocery bag swinging from one arm like she'd just popped out to buy oat milk and walked straight into a Nicholas Sparks finale.
“If I have to,” I said, too breathless to bother with charm.
She studied me for a moment, a thousand judgments passing silently over her face.
“She’s not here,” she said. “Or at least she wasn’t when I left. And judging by the frantic CEO energy radiating off you right now, I’m guessing something very bad has happened.”
“I need to talk to her. If I can just see her—if she’d listen—I can fix this,” I said, my voice low and tight.
Isabella didn’t say anything for a second. Her mouth twitched like she was deciding whether to slap me or pity me.
“Yeah,” she said finally. “Well, that talk wasn’t exactly a bedtime story when I left. Frigid Cruella De Vil vibes. Genuinely scary. The kind of woman who speaks in veiled threats and cashmere.”
“She’s dangerous,” I muttered.
“Agreed. In a Michelle-Obama-but-make-it-malevolent kind of way.”
I didn’t have time for a literary breakdown of Ava’s mother. “Do you have the spare key?”
She frowned. “Why?”
“Because if I’m wrong, and Ava’s still here, I need to know now.”
Isabella sighed, tossed her grocery bag onto the floor, and pulled a key from her pocket. She handed it over without ceremony, and I jammed it into the lock, not caring that my hand was shaking.
The door creaked open.
The apartment was dark. Still. Hollow.
And empty.
No coat on the hook. No bag on the counter. No sign of her at all.
Isabella stepped in behind me, her brows knitting as she took it in.
“Well,” she muttered. “Looks like we were right. The Wicked Witch did kidnap her.”
I didn’t respond. My entire chest was compressing, breath shallow, every instinct in me screaming you’re running out of time.
“I’ll call security,” I said, already reaching for my phone. “Private SWAT. I’ll put every airport on lockdown if I have to.”
“No need,” she said.
“What do you mean ‘no need’?”
“I mean,” she said, pulling out a silver laptop and tossing it on the coffee table, “that I put an AirTag in her purse.”
I blinked. “You what?”
“I had a feeling,” she said, typing quickly, her fingers moving with practiced ease. “Between a gaslighting ex, an emotionally constipated boss—no offense—and a manipulative mother who could probably dissolve democracy with a well-placed eyebrow, it just felt like a backup plan was... responsible.”
My heart punched the inside of my chest. “You put an AirTag in her purse.”
“You’re welcome,” she muttered. “Come on, come on, load—ah.”
The screen flashed.
A map.
A pulsing blue dot.
“The airport,” she confirmed. “She’s moving. Headed for departures.”
“We’re behind,” I said. “We need to move now.”
She nodded. “I’m grabbing my bag.”
I turned, already halfway to the door.
“I’ll call the driver.”
“No,” I snapped. “I’ll drive.”
Isabella’s eyes widened. “Oh. We’re in the get-her-back-or-die-trying phase.”
“Exactly,” I said, already throwing the keys into my palm. “Get in the car.”
She didn’t argue.
We were out the door in seconds.