Chapter 3: Burn It All Down

~Elena’s POV~

(At Los Angeles International Airport)

“I need a ticket to New York.”

The blonde airline attendant blinks at me, taking in my tear stained face with pity written all over her face.

She must be wondering what happened to me. If I was robbed or running away.

She wouldn’t be wrong.

“Give me a minute, ma’am.” Her voice is polite, but I can hear the concern underneath. I must look like a wreck.

I bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep my emotions at bay, gripping the handle of my suitcase so tightly my knuckles turn white.

The taxi ride here had been unbearable

Every mile away from that house should have been a relief, but instead, the silence suffocated me. My mind replayed everything on a loop, each memory another knife to my chest.

Damian.

Sophia.

The baby

I had tried not to cry. Had tried not to let my emotions consume me. But the second I slid into that taxi, the dam broke.

And I let it.

I clench my jaw as anger, pain and rage come rushing back, hot and consuming.

“Ma’am,” the attendant says, drawing me back to reality, “the earliest flight to New York is Volaris Airlines. Would you like to book a ticket?”

I nod automatically and reach into my purse, fumbling for my card.

Empty.

I blink. The realization slamming into me.

I left my damn credit card at home.

Or rather in that house.

But then I remember that our bank account was joint. Every damn dollar in it was tied to him.

A bitter laugh bubbles up in my throat, but I swallow it down. Of course, he would still have control, even after everything.

I glance at the cash I had thankfully withdrawn the day before. Thank God for small mercies and place it on the counter.

“Economy” I bite out.

It’s all I can afford, if I don't want to be completely broke by the end of the week but I don’t care. I just need to leave.

With my ticket in hand, I shove past the crowd, making a beeline for security. I don’t stop, don’t breathe, don’t think.

I can’t.

Because if I do, I might just turn around and burn that entire fucking house to the ground.

After clearing immigration, I glance up at the nearest flight information panel. My eyes scan the massive screen until they land on the red letters beside my flight details.

VOLARIS AIRLINES

12:00 PM – New York – ON 997

I exhale shakily.

One hour until I can escape.

I tighten my coat around me, suddenly aware of the stares from strangers.

I need a minute.

Spinning on my heel, I spot the sign for the women’s restroom and slip inside, locking the stall behind me.

My breathing is uneven as I press my back against the cold metal door, willing my emotions to stay buried.

But then I make the mistake of looking up.

And my reflection destroys me.

I look awful.

Blood has dried at my hairline from where I hit the table, my cheeks are flushed an angry red, and my blue eyes once so full of life are dull.

I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping the sink for support. My phone feels like dead weight in my hand as I pull it out, my fingers trembling as I press Isa’s contact.

She picks up on the second ring.

“Babe,” Isa drawls, her voice laced with mischief, “back so soon? What happened, did Damian give you a quickie?”

The words hit me like a physical blow. My breath hitches.

Isa notices.

“Elena…” Her voice drops, the teasing edge vanishing. “Why do you sound like that?”

I inhale shakily. “Can I… can I come crash at your place for a few days?”

Silence.

Then Isa’s voice is sharp, concerned. “What happened?”

“I’ll explain later,” I whisper. “I just—please, Isa. I need somewhere to think.”

“Of course, babe, always,” she says immediately, but I hear the steel beneath her words. “But if this is about him, I swear to God, I’ll book a flight to LA right now and bury his sorry ass—”

I let out a weak laugh, but it quickly changes into a sob.

“Shit,” Isa mutters, voice softer now. “Where are you?”

“I’m at LAX. My flight is in an hour.”

“Okay. Send me your details. And, Elena?”

“Yeah?”

"Breathe. Whatever it is, we’ll burn it all down together.”

I exhale, some of the crushing weight lifting off my chest. “Thanks, Isa.”

“Anytime, babe.” A pause. “And Elena?”

“Yeah?”

“Next time I see Damian, I’m bringing a knife.”

The line goes dead.

I let out a watery laugh, wiping my face. Isa is a damn menace. She’s reckless.

And right now? That is exactly what I need

A notification pops up on my screen.

Reservation at La Cuisine – 8PM.

I had this booked for us.

Before he ruined everything.

Before I saw him with her.

My lips curl into a snarl as I hit delete.

“Fucking bastard,” I mutter, shoving my phone back into my bag.

I turn back to the mirror, washing my face quickly, dabbing at my wound as best as I can. I apply a little powder and lip gloss, enough to make me look slightly less like a walking disaster.

Not perfect. But better.

Leaving the restroom, I make my way to Starbucks, ordering an iced tea—coffee would only make the anxiety worse.

As I turn to head toward my gate, someone collides into me, hard.

The impact sends me stumbling back, my drink slipping from my grasp.

Ice-cold liquid drenches my shirt.

My patience? Gone.

“What the hell?” I snap, grabbing the stranger’s jacket before he can escape.

The man stills. Then, slowly, he turns

And my breath catches.

Gray eyes. Tousled dark hair. A sharp jawline.

‘Elena, stop.' A voice screams in my head.

His eyes size my up in a slow, assessing, bored manner.

“Excuse me?” His voice is deep, edged with something almost amused.

“You heard me,” I bite out. “Did you lose your damn manners, or did you never have any to begin with?”

A muscle ticks in his jaw.

He lifts a brow, smirking. “Careful, sweetheart. You’re looking at a man who doesn’t apologize.”

I take a step closer to him, tilting my chin up. “And you’re looking at a woman who doesn’t give a damn.”

For a second, I think he’s going to snap back, but then

He just shrugs off my grip. Walks around me and he turns and walks away.

Like I’m not even worth arguing with.

I watch his retreating figure, my rage returning full force.

“Jerk!” I yell after him, my voice hoarse from all the screaming today.

He doesn’t even turn around.

I glare daggers at his back, then glance down at my soaked clothes.

Could my day get any worse?

With an exhausted sigh, I stomp back to the restroom to clean up, ignoring the amused stares from the airport crowd.

As I step out, a voice echoes through the terminal.

“Passengers for Flight ON 997 to New York, please proceed to Gate 11 immediately.”

My stomach tightens.

With a steady breath, I adjust my bag and make my way toward the gate.

As soon as I’m seated on the plane, I send my flight details to Isa, then switch off my phone.

As the plane takes off, I stare out the window, watching LA disappear beneath the clouds.

I should feel relief.

But all I feel is rage.

Sadness and pain.