Chapter 21 - His Runaway Bride (3)

Lucian sat down on the sofa without another word, leaving Lisbeth and Ferdinand in tense silence. 

Lucian’s men came and went from the room, bringing news while he went over their actions so far. 

It was contrary to Ferdinand's plans - they had not expected that Lucian would actually care so much about Ayra. 

As the hours passed, Lucian’s suspicions only deepened. The more he reviewed their efforts, the more he noticed gaps and inconsistencies. 

Certain areas hadn’t been thoroughly searched, and some key resources hadn’t been utilized.

“You’ve been holding back,” Lucian said coldly. “Admit it.”

“We did everything we could,” Lisbeth retorted, her voice more measured now that more time had passed. 

Lucian countered; “If you’d treated this with the urgency it deserved, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, don't you think?”

As Lucian delved deeper into the situation, he had begun to piece together the events leading up to Ayra’s escape. 

He realized how little agency she’d been given in the wedding preparations - despite his express order for the opposite - and how sidelined she had been throughout the process.

“She was against this marriage from the start,” Lucian said, his voice heavy. 

“And yet, you totally ignored her protests and practically made her miserable in her own home. Little wonder she ran, right?”

Ferdinand looked away, his expression troubled. “We thought we were doing what was best for her.”

The truth was that they were too busy trying to hold up the facade of her being Isa and preparing for other things that they'd had no time to try to ease her into things. 

And to make matters worse, Lucian's people were STILL investigating Ayra like hound dogs on steroids. In a way, it was HIS fault they were not fully committed to finding Ayra. 

“She’s not a pawn,” he said quietly, the words somehow heavier than his earlier shouts. He could not bear the thought of his Isa being treated that way.

“She’s a person. If you want her loyalty, you need to earn it, and right now, you’re doing the opposite.”

“She’s young,” Lisbeth said, her eyes cold but her tone more subdued. “She doesn’t know what’s good for her.”

Lucian let out a short, humorless laugh, his tone venomous. 

“What she doesn’t know is how to trust any of you. You treat her like a piece on a chessboard, and you wonder why she ran?”

The Isa he knew was too strong - too independent, with just the right amount of a rebellious streak - to just simply let things proceed. 

She wasn’t just scared. She was Isa.

He swallowed hard, pushing the thought away. No matter how much her actions reminded him of Isa, it didn’t excuse this mess. And it didn’t mean she was safe.

Lisbeth huffed, her arms tightening across her chest. “And what would you have done differently?”

“Everything,” Lucian replied without missing a beat.

....

Lucian’s steps echoed in the hallway as his mind churned. 

He hated Ferdinand and Lisbeth for their incompetence, for treating Isa like some obligation they could control and force. But he hated himself more - for not seeing this coming.

Ayra - or Isa - was out there, outsmarting them all. A part of him admired her grit. The other part burned hotly with frustration. 

Even worse, he had suspended an important negotiation to come over here but it could not be suspended indefinitely. 

The Wendells were an impatient lot and perhaps he had three days to go before he had to fly back.

He clenched his fists. It didn’t matter. He’d find her.

Because beneath his carefully maintained exterior, a storm of emotions raged. Anger at Ferdinand and Lisbeth for their failures. 

Frustration at Ayra for slipping through their grasp. And a deep, unshakable fear that he might lose Isa again.

He made a silent vow: he would find Ayra, no matter the cost. And when he did, he would ensure she never felt the need to run again.

.......

The cabin crouched deep in the forest, tucked among ancient trees like it had grown there, unknown and forgotten. 

For Ayra, it was a rather shaky refuge; a quiet hiding place that barely kept the chaos at bay. 

The first three days passed in a strange blur - half survival, half restless waiting, knowing that people would come for her. 

But hoping beyond hope that they didn't, and praying that she would be able to get out of the city by the time things blew over.

She spent the first day cleaning, the task both grueling and somehow grounding. 

Dust smothered every surface, cobwebs drooped like faded curtains, and the air had a damp, stale bite of neglect she found disconcerting. 

She had tied a scarf around her face and dove in, scrubbing the floors until they gleamed, wiping the grime from countertops, and shaking out moth-eaten sheets despite wanting to just toss them away. 

By sunset, the cabin was hers - or as much hers as it could be. 

It wasn’t perfect, but the golden beams of sunlight streaming through newly washed windows almost made it feel like home.

Exhaustion hit like a freight train that night. Collapsing onto the lumpy couch, she stared at the flickering flames in the fireplace, her thoughts miles away. 

No electricity because a fuse was blown. No noise except the crickets outside and the occasional eerie call of an owl. The quiet was suffocating and soothing all at once.

....

Day two dragged her into the forest. Yesterday had been about the cabin; today, she let herself breathe in the woods' stillness. 

Every snap of a twig and rush of wind reminded her of summers long gone. 

Her mother had loved this place, dragging Ayra here year after year to hike, pick berries, and watch stars glitter through the tree canopy.

Back then, Ayra had half-hated it - it was too slow, too quiet for a city girl. Now, every memory of those summers felt like a treasure she had failed to properly appreciate. 

She'd loved them even back then, sure, but you would never get her to admit it.

By midday, the nostalgia faded under the weight of practicality.

Ayra rummaged through what little the cabin offered: a rusty knife, an ancient first aid kit, a jar of mysterious tea leaves, and a stack of dog-eared paperbacks, though some were new.

She remembered her mother reading some of them while she slept at night. Ayra hadn't understood the allure of a proper novel then - short videos were good enough for her. 

She picked one of the books at random, curling up by the fire to read. The words barely registered, but the routine felt oddly grounding.

Meals were basic: sandwiches slapped together from her dwindling groceries, hard-boiled eggs, and cups of the old tea. 

The isolation still felt like a relief—but cracks had begun to show.

.....

By day three, Ayra was pacing. The quiet that had been comforting turned sharp and heavy, pressing down on her. 

Every snap of a branch outside made her heart race. Her gaze kept drifting to the forest road, half expecting—or dreading—someone to come for her.

Ferdinand and Lisbeth wouldn’t stop looking. She knew that much. But Lucian? That was harder to pin down. 

Thinking about him brought a mix of guilt and fear she couldn’t shake. How deep was his hand in all of this? Could she trust him—or had she been wrong to hope?

Pushing the thought away, Ayra forced herself to focus on survival. Her food wouldn’t last much longer, and the well water tasted slightly metallic. 

Sooner or later, she’d need to leave for supplies and to check out the general situation of the city.