Liam’s POV
We were already halfway to the airport when I made the call.
Jamie picked up on the first ring, probably because I never called him twice in one day unless we were going to war.
“I need you to do something,” I said, gripping the wheel tighter, weaving through traffic like I was seconds from crashing into the whole damn city.
“I figured, judging by the tone.”
“Jeremy Callahan,” I said. “You know the story.”
“Unfortunately.”
“I want a full internal report. Pull every file HR has on what happened with Ava—statements, logs, footage. Get legal to draft a formal complaint. Send it to every board member by morning.”
“And the media?”
“Let them have it.”
“...You’re sure?”
“Make it look official, but make it ugly. Bury him. And if he thinks he’s going to litigate his way out of this, remind him that we still own every second of footage that shows him laying a hand on her.”
Jamie was silent for a beat. Then, “Got it. You okay?”
“No.”
Click.
I didn’t want to talk. I just wanted to get there.
The traffic broke open near the terminal, and I took the curb at a dangerous angle. Isabella cursed in the passenger seat, clutching the door handle like she wasn’t used to being in a car with a man who was ready to torch the Earth.
“Which gate?” I asked.
She refreshed the tracker. “Private departures. West wing. Her mom’s jet is still on the tarmac.”
I didn’t wait for more. I parked like I’d stolen the car and bolted out, sprinting across polished tiles and ignoring the way the security cameras tracked me. I’d barely reached the private terminal before someone stepped in my path—uniformed, armed, and already speaking into a radio.
“Sir. We’re going to need you to come with us.”
I froze.
“What?”
“You’re Mr. Duarte?”
“Yes.”
“You’re going to need to answer a few questions before you proceed. There’s been an alert issued.”
“An alert?”
He looked uncomfortable. “In light of the current… situation in the media, we received an anonymous tip you may be fleeing jurisdiction to avoid pending legal charges.”
“Are you serious?”
“This way, sir.”
I saw Isabella try to intervene, her voice rising, but I was already being escorted down a side hall, into a holding area that smelled like disinfectant and bad timing. I handed over my ID, signed a statement, answered the same three questions six times.
No, I wasn’t fleeing.
Yes, I could prove I was scheduled to be at the Duarte headquarters tomorrow morning.
No, I had nothing to hide.
It took twenty-five minutes.
By the time they released me, my chest was so tight it hurt to breathe.
Isabella was waiting just outside the doors, laptop still open, her mouth drawn in a tight, furious line.
“She’s gone,” she said.
I followed her gaze to the window.
Out on the tarmac, Ava’s mother’s private jet was no longer sitting at the gate.
It was rising—sleek, polished, indifferent—into the soft orange haze of a late afternoon sky.
I stared at it, frozen, until it disappeared into the clouds.
And then I turned back to Isabella.
“She’s not going to stay gone,” I said, my voice low. Steady.
Isabella looked at me, eyebrows lifting. “You sound sure.”
“Because I’m not done,” I said.
Not with Jeremy. Not with Athena Sinclaire.
And definitely not with Ava.