The plane's wheels hit the tarmac in Houston with a jarring thud, yanking Bianca from a restless, hazy doze. She was here. She had made it.
The first-class cabin, which had felt like a protective bubble for the last three hours, suddenly felt too small. She grabbed her carry-on, her movements stiff. She ignored the polite "Have a nice day" from the flight attendant and moved down the jet bridge in a numb daze.
She looked like a ghost haunting the terminal. Her expensive sweat-suit was wrinkled from being slept in. Her face was pale and blotchy from crying, her hair still scraped back in that severe, desperate bun.
She found the baggage claim and stood by the carousel, a high-powered attorney suddenly looking like a lost, broke teenager. Her bag, her one single bag, came out last.
She pulled it off the belt and walked toward the sliding glass doors, her heart pounding.
Her mother was there, waiting just past the security line.
She wasn't the broken, volatile woman of Bianca's childhood. The woman standing there was Clara Carter, thin, her hair showing streaks of gray, but her eyes sharp and clear. She was clean. She was steady. She was the woman Bianca had worked so hard to save.
When Clara saw her daughter, her face crumpled in concern. She didn't wait. She pushed through the crowd and wrapped her arms around Bianca, pulling her in so tight it almost hurt.
Bianca buried her face in her mother's shoulder, and for a second, she was just a little girl again. All the armor, the law degree, the sharp suit, the New York job, crumbled away.
"Oh, baby," Clara whispered, rubbing her back. "You're okay. I've got you. You're home."
Bianca couldn't speak. She just nodded, clutching her mother's thin jacket.
They walked to the car, a beat-up but reliable old sedan that smelled like her mother's floral perfume. Bianca threw her expensive suitcase in the trunk and slid into the passenger seat. The vinyl seats were cracked from the Texas heat. It was a million miles away from Eddie's penthouse.
Clara got in and just sat for a moment, looking at her daughter. "You're pale as a sheet," Clara said, her voice practical. "You need to eat, and then you need to sleep for a week."
"I don't know what to do, Mom," Bianca whispered, staring at her hands.
Clara put the key in the ignition and turned the engine over. "First," she said, pulling out of the parking spot, "you rest. Then, you make a doctor's appointment. Then, you make a plan."
She glanced at Bianca, her eyes full of a strength Bianca recognized. "You're Carter, Bianca. We bend, we don't break. Remember that."
Twenty-four hours later, Eddie Blackwell was pacing his penthouse office.
He hadn't slept. He'd spent the night staring at his phone, at the "Message Blocking is Active" error, a cold fury building in his chest.
She had run. After everything. After that night in the war room. After he had sent that letter, a move that still made him feel exposed, she had turned and fled like a coward.
His conclusion was simple: He had shown her the reality of his life, the engagement, the pressure, the duty, and she had decided it was too much. She didn't have the stomach for it.
He was hurt. But beneath the hurt, he was angry.
The intercom buzzed. "Marcus is here, Mr. Blackwell."
"Send him in."
The door opened, and Marcus West entered, holding a slim, gray file.
"You were right to be concerned," Marcus said, his voice a low rumble. "She's not at her apartment. She's gone."
Eddie turned from the window. "Her mother? Is the story true?"
"Partially," Marcus said. He opened the file. "She is with her mother. But not in New York. She booked a last-minute, one-way, first-class ticket out of JFK at 10:30 yesterday morning. She landed in Houston, Texas, at 1:45 PM."
The words hit Eddie like a slap. A first-class, one-way ticket. That wasn't a family emergency. That was an escape. A meticulously planned retreat.
"She's covering her tracks," Marcus continued, his voice flat. "She used a new credit card, one we don't have on file, to book the flight. Her personal cell is disconnected, as you know. The doorman at her building confirmed she left with one large suitcase. She's using a prepaid burner phone. There's been no credit card activity since she landed in Houston."
Marcus looked up, his eyes sharp. "This is... deliberate, Eddie. She didn't just run. She vanished."
Eddie's jaw tightened. She had been more thorough than he'd expected. This wasn't a scared woman running. This was a careful retreat.
It confirmed his theory: she was running from him. The thought wounded his pride more than he cared to admit.
"She has sensitive information," Eddie said, his voice cold. "She knows the entire structure of the acquisition."
"She does," Marcus agreed. "Which makes her a significant security risk."
"Find out why she really ran," Eddie commanded. "I want to know her mother's real condition. I want to know who she's talking to. I want a team on her, Marcus. A quiet one. No one gets close, but I want to know everything. I want to know when she brushes her teeth."
Marcus nodded slowly. He knew this wasn't just about a security risk. He knew his godson. This was a chase.
"I'll handle it," Marcus said.
"Good. Keep me updated."
Marcus left. Eddie turned back to the window. So, she was in Houston. She thought she could just disappear. She thought she could just walk away from him.
He looked at his phone, at her blocked, disconnected number.
"You can't hide from me, Bianca," he whispered to the empty room. "No one walks away from me."
Back in Houston, Bianca was sitting in her childhood bedroom. It was small, with peeling floral wallpaper and a single bed. She had just showered and was wearing an old, soft t-shirt that smelled like her mom's laundry detergent.
She felt... safe.
Clara came in, holding a steaming bowl of chicken soup.
"I don't know if I can eat, Mom," Bianca said, her voice small.
"You'll eat," Clara said, setting it on the nightstand. "You're eating for two now."
Bianca looked down at her hands. "I quit my job, Mom. The one I worked so hard for. I just... left."
"It's a job, Bianca," Clara said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You can get another job. You can't get another life." She gently put her hand on Bianca's flat stomach. "This is your life now."
Bianca covered her mom's hand with her own. She was safe. She was home.
But as she looked out the window at the quiet, dark suburban street, a new, cold fear began to creep in.
She had run from a billionaire. A man who commanded people like Marcus West. A man who was a careful strategist.
How long could she really stay hidden? How long before he decided to look for her?