The mechanic pulled her out of the diner through the backdoor. The masked men happened to be area thugs who came to ransack the diner under the cover of searching for the missing princess has ordered by Ethan. She looked terrified and lost
"Don't mind them, that's how they act around, its their turf" he said.
They walked into the alley and he felt the urge to help her to safety. They got to the car park
"Wait here, let me get you something to eat and bring my car around" the mechanic said leaving her behind.
Catherine's lungs were still burning from the sprint that brought her there. Her bare feet stung against broken concrete, the hem of her gown torn and soaked. The sound of footsteps behind her jolted her. Then a voice.
"There you are, princess?"
She didn't need to look. The voice was Ethan's fixer—Gregor. One of her father's many shadows. His silhouette stepped into the car park, gun gleaming inside its holster under the streetlamp.Her body froze. He approached her while calling his men who were ransacking the diner.Then a roar—an engine revved hard, followed by tires screeching.Headlights blinded Gregor. A figure leapt from the car—a man in a leather jacket, strong and silent. His fist connected with Gregor's face before he could reach out to Catherine. Gregor cursed, punched, stumbled.The man didn't flinch. Another punch. A grunt. Gregor dropped. It was the mechanic who told her to wait earlier. The stranger turned to her.
"You okay?" he asked.She tried to nod but swayed.
The adrenaline was fading. She saw only shadows. His face blurred behind foggy vision and too much fear.
"Come on. Let's get you somewhere safe."
She didn't ask who he was. She just let him lead her into the safety of his beat-up truck. He drove in silence, knuckles tight on the wheel, checking the mirror every few seconds. Then he pulled up outside a seedy roadside motel.
"Room's paid for. Get some rest."
She blinked up at him.
"Why are you helping me?"His lips tugged, almost into a smile. "Everyone runs from something."Then he left.
She never saw his face.
The next morning, Catherine woke up in a motel room that smelled of pine-scented cleaning products and hopeless dreams, stepped out to a nearby convenience store to get convenient clothes and some other necessities. She burned her dress in a trash barrel behind a convenience store. Her hair was hacked short. She'd traded her past for a hoodie, jeans, and a new name: Cate Brooks.
She found herself in a local end of Los Angeles three days later. Cash only. No cards. No calls. No trace. Alma's Diner was the kind of place the world forgot: linoleum floors, red vinyl booths, and a jukebox that hadn't worked since the Clinton administration. But it had one thing she needed—an opening for a waitress.Alma, a sixty-something widow with eyes that saw too much, didn't ask questions. She handed Cate an apron.
"You runnin' from a man or the devil?"
"A little of both," Cate answered, truthfully.
The next week passed in a blur of coffee pots, broken orders, and the ache of pretending she didn't used to sip champagne in penthouses. She worked double shifts, kept her head down, and ignored the ache in her chest every time a black SUV passed by the diner window.
Then one evening, the old beat-up car she bought while on the run sputtered and died in the alley. Smoke came out from the hood. Cate frustratingly smacked the steering wheel, and climbed out, slamming the door.
"Need help?" a voice called from under a 1978 Dodge Challenger parked nearby.
She froze.The voice. That voice.He slid out from beneath the car, grease on his hands, a smudge across his cheek. His eyes met hers—green, stormy, familiar.It was him. The man from that night.Her breath caught.
"Do I look like I know how to change a spark plug?" she snapped instinctively.
He grinned. "Didn't want to assume. You have the shoes for it."
They shared their first laugh there.He fixed her car with quiet skill, wiping sweat and grime from his brow while she watched him from the curb. Later, they'd share more: cooking chili in the diner kitchen after hours, slow dancing to a dusty cassette player in his garage, and Cate realizing that for the first time, someone saw her—not her name. But something always lingered in the air. An edge. A question he didn't ask. A truth she couldn't tell. Until the lie came for her.
It started with a headline.
LOCAL BUSINESSMAN FOUND DEAD – FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED
Cate dropped the dish she was drying. Liam looked up from the grill.
"You good?"She nodded too quickly.
"Yeah. Slipped."
But her heart wouldn't stop pounding.The man in the photo—Victor Bellamy. One of her father's closest allies. He'd supported the engagement. Controlled half the board.Dead. Shot execution-style in a penthouse downtown. It wasn't a message. It was a war cry. She hadn't been gone long enough. She hadn't buried the name deep enough.That night, she walked home faster than usual.The lights in her apartment flickered.A shadow moved in the stairwell.bShe turned. And froze. Gregor stood at the top of the stairs. Gun in hand. Smiling.
"Hello again, princess."