Ava's POV
The world outside the car windows was a blur of light and shadow. Streetlights streaked past like fallen stars. Ava sat rigid in the plush leather seat, her hands clenched in her lap, her entire body one giant, throbbing ache. She didn't dare look at the man driving. She stared straight ahead, watching the road swallow itself under the dark hood of the SUV.
The silence was thick and heavy. It wasn't a peaceful silence. It was the silence after an explosion, where your ears are still ringing. Her ears were ringing with Mark's final scream, with the sound of the door hitting the frame, with her own ragged breaths.
She had done it. She had left. The thought was so huge, so terrifying, it didn't feel real. It felt like she was watching a movie of someone else's life.
"Put your seatbelt on."
His voice, that same low, calm tone, made her jump. She fumbled for the belt, her fingers numb and clumsy. The strap crossed her aching chest, and she couldn't suppress a sharp gasp as it pressed against her ribs.
He glanced at her, then back at the road. His hands were relaxed on the steering wheel. Ten and two. He drove the way he did everything else with unnerving control. "Where does it hurt the most?" he asked.
The question was so practical, so devoid of pity or panic, it cut through her shock. "My side. The right side," she whispered. "And my wrist."
"Can you take a deep breath?"
She tried. A stabbing pain made her stop halfway, a whimper escaping her lips. She shook her head, tears welling up again from the pain and the sheer overwhelm of it all.
"Okay," he said, as if she'd just given him a useful piece of data, like a weather report. "We'll be there in seven minutes."
"Where?" The word burst out of her. "Where are you taking me?"
"A safe place. Somewhere he won't look."
"Who are you?" she asked, finally turning her head to look at him. In the dim light from the dashboard, his profile was sharp: a straight nose, a strong jaw, a mouth set in a neutral line. He didn't look like a hero from a movie. He looked… serious. Like a doctor going into a complex surgery. Or a soldier on a mission.
"My name is Leo," he said. He didn't offer a last name. He didn't ask for hers. He already knew it. "You texted me."
"It was a mistake," she said, the guilt and fear mixing into a nauseous cocktail. "I meant to text my sister. I was shaking… I hit the wrong contact. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to drag you into this."
"It wasn't a mistake."
The certainty in his voice stunned her into silence.
"I got your text. I came. That's what happened." He said it like it was a simple equation. A + B = C. Desperate text + his reply = here they were, driving away into the night. No drama. No second-guessing. "The 'why' doesn't matter now. The 'what next' does."
Ava slumped back in her seat, exhausted. He was right. The wrong number, fate, sheer dumb luck didn't matter. She was in a car with a stranger, hurt, running from Mark. That was her reality.
"He got your license plate," she said, the memory flashing back. "He took a picture."
Leo's expression didn't change. He simply gave a small, single nod. "I know."
"He'll find you. He'll call the police. He'll tell them you kidnapped me." The panic was rising again, tightening her throat.
"He won't call the police," Leo said, his voice still calm. "Men like him don't. They handle things themselves. Or they hire people to handle it. Calling the police invites questions he doesn't want to answer. Questions about broken ribs."
Ava absorbed this. It was true. Mark's pride was his most fragile possession. He'd never admit to a stranger beating him at his own door, or to having a girlfriend who needed to be "kidnapped" to get away. He'd see it as a personal insult, a challenge. He would come for her to prove a point. And he would come for Leo, for the insult.
"The plate is registered to a shell company," Leo continued, as if reading her thoughts. "It'll lead to a P.O. box for a business that doesn't exist. It'll waste his time. But you're right. He will try to find you. So we won't be where he looks."
He turned the car off the main avenue and into a network of quieter, older streets. They were in a part of the city she didn't recognize. The buildings were taller, more industrial, with big windows dark for the night.
He pulled into a narrow alley, then into a private, gated parking garage beneath one of the buildings. A security camera light winked red as he tapped a card against a reader. The heavy metal gate rolled up silently, and he drove into a spot marked PRIVATE - 1.
The engine cut off. The silence rushed back in.
"Can you walk?" he asked.
She nodded, unbuckling her seatbelt with another wince. He was out of the car and opening her door before she could manage to push it herself. He offered his hand. After a second's hesitation, she took it, letting him help her out. Her legs felt like jelly.
They took a private elevator up. He used a key, not a button. The elevator opened directly into an apartment.
It wasn't what she expected. It wasn't a rich man's penthouse. It was clean, modern, but utterly bare. A gray sofa, a glass coffee table, a single floor lamp. No pictures. No books. No plants. It looked like a very nice hotel room that no one had ever stayed in. It smelled faintly of citrus cleaner and new carpet.
"Safe house," he said, answering her unasked question. "No one knows about it. Not my family. Not his. Sit. I'm calling a doctor."
"A doctor? But it's the middle of the night…"
"The doctor I call works for me," he said simply, pulling out his phone. He walked to the far window, speaking in low tones she couldn't hear.
Works for me. The phrase echoed in the sterile room. Who had a doctor that "worked for them" in the middle of the night? Who had empty apartments just waiting for emergencies? Who drove a car with fake plates and didn't flinch when a violent athlete threatened him?
The fear came back, colder and smarter now. She had run from a burning building and jumped into deep, dark water. She was safe from the fire, but now she was in over her head with something she didn't understand.
Leo finished his call and came back. He went to the kitchenette, just as bare and clean as the living room, and filled a glass with water. He brought it to her. "Drink. The doctor will be here in twenty minutes. He's discreet. He won't ask questions you don't want to answer."
She took the glass with trembling hands. "Thank you," she said, the words feeling completely inadequate. "For coming. For… all of this."
He looked at her for a long moment, his gray eyes assessing. "You don't have to thank me. I told you I would come."
He walked over to the sofa and sat in a chair opposite her, not too close. He didn't try to fill the silence with comforting lies. He just sat, a steady, watchful presence, as she sipped the water and tried not to fall apart.
Several minutes later, his phone buzzed. He looked at the screen, his brow furrowing slightly. It wasn't the look of a man getting a text from a friend. It was the look of a man receiving a report.
He stood up. "The doctor is downstairs. I'll go meet him and bring him up. You'll be safe here. The door has three locks."
He moved toward the apartment's main door, but as he passed the coffee table, he stopped. He seemed to think for a second, then, moving with deliberate slowness, he took off his long wool coat. Underneath, he wore a simple black sweater. He folded the coat neatly and placed it on the back of the chair.
Then, without a word, he reached behind his back, under the sweater. There was a soft click of a release.
He placed the object in his hand on the high shelf by the door, next to a plain ceramic vase.
It was a gun. A compact, serious-looking black pistol.
He did it calmly, as if putting away his keys. He met her wide, terrified eyes.
"So you know," he said quietly. "And so you're not startled if you see it."
Then he walked out the door, leaving her alone in the silent, sterile safe house.
Ava stared at the gun on the shelf, gleaming dully under the single lamp. It was a final, undeniable truth. Her savior was a man who carried a hidden weapon as casually as other men carried a wallet. The question now wasn't just if Mark would find her. The question was, who exactly had she just entrusted her life to?