Harlow pushed through the terminal doors. The humid night air was a physical blow. Nausea rolled through her again. She stumbled to a concrete pillar, bending over as her stomach convulsed. Empty.
She straightened, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and flagged down the first yellow cab she saw. She threw her suitcase into the back and climbed in, needing to be away from here. Away from JFK.
As her taxi pulled away, a line of black Cadillac Escalades slid silently into the space it had just vacated. Doors opened in unison. Men in dark suits and earpieces emerged, creating an immediate, invisible perimeter.
Alistair Sterling—Vanderbilt IV stepped out of the lead vehicle. He was tall, built with the lean, powerful lines of a man who commanded boardrooms. His suit was immaculate, but his tie was slightly loosened. On the knuckles of his right hand, a thin, fresh scratch was beginning to scab.
He glanced up at the terminal, his jaw a hard line. The security lockdown had been a colossal failure. He had been trying to help a woman knocked down in the crush of the crowd, pulling her into the nearest room for safety. But the emergency system had plunged them into darkness. In the confusion, he had lost control.
A grave mistake.
Last night, after eating something unclean, he was chased by people. In his desperation, he ruined a girl’s innocence.
After that, fearing that the enemy might pursue him here and put the girl in danger, he left first. He only returned after the danger was removed.
That was a girl’s maiden night.
He said last night that he would definitely take responsibility for her and make her the happiest and most respected woman in the world!
He keeps his word.
"Find her," he said to Finn Sullivan, his aide. His voice was a low, dangerous rumble. "Use every resource. I need to make this right."
He slid into the Escalade, rubbing the bridge of his nose. This trip home was supposed to be about an acquisition and dissolving his ridiculous, two—year—old sham of a marriage. Now, there was a third, more urgent priority.
"Sir," Finn said, sliding in opposite him and handing over a tablet. "We have the final report on your wife, Harlow Rowe."
Alistair took it. The screen displayed a series of grainy, long—lens photographs. A woman with a passing resemblance to the file photo he’d once seen, entering and leaving hotels with different men.
"These were taken over the last few years," Finn explained, his tone carefully neutral. "Our investigators report that her personal life has been... active."
The air in the car grew still. Alistair's jaw tightened. He had never felt anything for this stranger.
That wife was forced upon him by the his family two years ago, as a way to suppress his power. He never even met her once. He didn’t even return on their wedding day. She was a name on a contract. But the contract had rules.
He needs to take good care of this woman. So over the years, he’s done his best to provide her with a comfortable life.
Now that the situation has stabilized and he holds all the power, he’s no longer bound by any restrictions. So, the first thing he did upon returning was to divorce his wife.
It’s not that he’s heartless—it’s that there’s no affection between them at all!
Divorce was a good thing for her, a relief.
To make up for the two years of her youth that she missed, he gave her plenty in compensation: a mansion, luxury cars, and a check for a billion.
He stared at the photos, his knuckles white against the edge of the tablet. The woman in the pictures wasn't just an opportunist. She was a cheat.
He never thought she’d be such a dishonest and manipulative woman!
In that case, she doesn’t deserve his compensation.
This was simple. A clean transaction gone wrong. It was nothing like the messy, unsettling memory of the woman in the lounge—the faint scent of lavender, the feel of her trembling against him. One woman, he had wronged and needed to find. The other, his wife, had wronged him and needed to be erased.
"Inform Martha to proceed," he commanded, his voice flat and cold. "Initiate the divorce protocol. And change the terms."
He swiped to a new screen.
"Cite Article 7. The infidelity clause. She gets nothing."
He needed to be unattached, his life clean, for when he found the woman from the airport. He would offer her anything to atone for what had happened. He couldn't do that while legally bound to a faithless wife.
"Sir," Finn said carefully, "the standard procedure is to offer a small initial sum to ensure a quick signature."
Alistair shook his head, his eyes glinting. "No."
His voice was quiet, final.
"I won't reward a whore with my family's money."
He leaned back and closed his eyes, but the image that came to him was not of the woman in the photographs. It was of a trembling silhouette in the dark.
"The airport security footage was corrupted during the lockdown," Finn reported quietly. "And there were no cameras inside the lounge. Finding her will be difficult."
Alistair's eyes snapped open. "Then make it easy. Check every hotel registry, every flight manifest, every car service record out of this airport for the next twenty—four hours. I don't care what it costs. I will find her."
He repeated it, more to himself than to Finn, a vow spoken into the insulated silence of the car.
"I must find her."
The convoy of black SUVs pulled away, melting into the New York night, chasing two different phantoms of the same woman.
Six years later.
A flight from the West Coast touched down at LaGuardia. A woman with tired but determined eyes walked into the terminal. She held the hands of two small boys, while a third trailed closely behind, his small fingers clutching the hem of her coat.
Harlow Rowe was back.
