Chapter 2 - The Departure into the Storm
The rain beat a frantic tattoo against the tinted windows of the taxi as it wove through the heavy interstate traffic heading toward New Jersey. Inside the car, the air was warm and smelled faintly of old upholstery and rain, offering a strange, cocooned sanctuary from the whirlwind of the past hour.
Emma stared out at the blurred lights of the city skyline, her hand resting protectively over her six-month pregnant belly.
Her mind spun back to the text message. Your jet is ready. Private terminal, Gate 4.
She unlocked her phone, her thumb hovering over the number that had sent the message. There was no name, only a string of digits routed through a secure server. She tapped it to call back, but a recorded automated voice immediately chirped: “This number is no longer in service.”
Frown lines deepened between her brows. Was this a sick joke orchestrated by one of Andrew’s wealthy, bored associates? Or perhaps a trap set by Lila and her friends to humiliate her further?
Yet, as the taxi pulled past the heavy iron security gates of the Teterboro private aviation facility, flashing her ID to a guard who didn't even blink before waving them through, doubt crept in. The guard looked at a tablet, nodded, and pointed a gloved hand toward the tarmac.
"Gate 4 is straight ahead, miss," the driver said, slowing the cab to a halt beside a sleek, pitch-black Gulfstream G650 idling on the tarmac. Its twin jet engines hummed with a low, powerful vibration that rattled the floorboards of the car.
A tall man in a tailored dark suit and an umbrella stood at the bottom of the aircraft’s folding stairs. As the taxi door opened, he stepped forward, sheltering her immediately from the driving rain with a wide black canopy.
"Mrs. Weston?" the man asked, his voice deep, calm, and utterly professional.
Emma hesitated, her hand clutching the strap of her leather purse. "Yes. But I didn't book this flight."
"Mr. Vance sends his regards," the man replied smoothly, offering a polite, deferential nod. "Everything has been arranged. Your luggage is already stowed, the medical kit is onboard, and our flight plan is cleared straight to Lancaster, Pennsylvania. If you'll step this way, ma’am?"
Marcus Vance?
The name jolted through Emma’s memory. Marcus Vance was the senior partner at Vance & Associates, the most feared corporate litigation and family law firm in the country—and incidentally, the very lawyer her father had hired behind the scenes to protect her assets. But Marcus Vance didn't do personal errands. He didn't dispatch multi-million-dollar private jets for a routine domestic dispute.
Unless... Andrew's sins ran far deeper than she ever imagined.
"Who authorized this?" Emma demanded, pausing on the second step of the aircraft stairs, the wind whipping her hair across her face.
The man offered a tight, enigmatic smile. "Let's just say, ma'am, that certain people in Manhattan have been watching your husband's financial maneuvers for a very long time. And someone decided that Mrs. Weston deserved a much softer landing."
Without waiting for another question, he gestured inside.
Emma stepped across the threshold into the cabin, and the heavy door sealed shut behind her, cutting off the noise of the rain and the outside world entirely.
The interior of the Gulfstream was a masterpiece of luxury and discretion. Supple cream leather seating, rich mahogany accents, and soft, ambient lighting created an atmosphere of absolute tranquility. A woman in a crisp flight attendant uniform appeared instantly, offering a warm, genuine smile.
"Welcome aboard, Mrs. Weston. Can I get you some sparkling water, or perhaps some herbal tea? Please make yourself comfortable. We'll be airborne in five minutes."
Dazed, Emma walked down the aisle and sank into a plush leather armchair by the window. As the jet taxied smoothly away from the terminal and aligned with the runway, she looked out at the twinkling lights of the airfield.
She pulled the manila copy of her divorce agreement from her bag, tracing her finger over her signature.
It's real, she told herself. It's finally happening.
As the jet roared down the runway and lifted effortlessly into the stormy night sky, piercing through the dark clouds into a sea of endless, starlit serenity above, Emma closed her eyes. For the first time in two years, the crushing weight on her chest lifted.
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She was leaving Andrew Weston behind. She was saving her child.
She had no idea that miles away, inside the glittering ballroom of the Manhattan Grand Hotel, her husband was about to discover that the woman he thought he owned had just blown up his entire empire.
