Chapter 14: The Escape Plan

The digital clock on Stephanie’s nightstand blinked *3:47 AM* in blood-red numerals. She lay perfectly still, her hand resting on the swell of her abdomen, counting the baby’s kicks like seconds ticking down on a bomb. *Two days.* Jake’s last message burned in her mind: *“Safe house secured. Be ready to move.”* But the Vanclair estate had become a fortress—cameras in every corner, guards patrolling the gardens, and Leon’s suspicion sharpening into something violent.

She slid out of bed, her bare feet silent on the cold marble. In the ensuite bathroom, she locked the door and crouched beside the vanity, her trembling fingers prying up a loose floor tile. Beneath it lay her lifeline: a burner phone, a stack of forged medical documents, and a lockpick hidden inside a tampon applicator. Jake’s voice echoed in her memory from their last coded call: *“Fake the appointment. They’ll expect a trap—so give them a better one.”*

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**9:15 AM**

“I need to see Dr. Voss *now*,” Stephanie gasped, clutching her stomach as Marguerite’s stone-faced driver eyed her through the rearview mirror. “It’s—*contractions*.”

The man’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. “Mrs. Vanclair said to go directly to the clinic for your scheduled—”

“Do you want to explain why you ignored the *heir*’s distress?” she hissed, layering her voice with Marguerite’s ice. It worked. The car swerved toward Mercy General Hospital.

Stephanie’s pulse roared as they pulled into the emergency drop-off lane. A nurse with a streaked-gray bun and kind eyes—*Jake’s contact*—rushed forward with a wheelchair. “We’ve got you, dear,” the woman said loudly, then mouthed: *“Third stall. Go.”*

In the restroom, Stephanie stripped off her cashmere coat and wig, swapping them for scrubs and a surgical mask. She slipped out the staff exit, where Jake waited in a battered delivery van.

“Cutting it close,” he muttered, peeling away as the driver stormed into the hospital, shouting her name.

“Safe house?” she asked, clutching the door handle.

“Abandoned vineyard cottage. No electricity, but it’s off-grid.” He handed her a key. “Memorize the address, then burn it.”

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**2:00 PM**

Leon’s secretary, Elise, lingered in the hallway outside his office, her stilettos sinking into the Persian rug. She adjusted her blouse—one button too low, perfume too sweet—and knocked.

“The Zurich files, Mr. Vanclair,” she purred, placing a folder on his desk. Buried inside were photos: Stephanie and Jake, their faces blurred but unmistakable, huddled at the boathouse. Another showed Stephanie’s burner phone, doctored to display a string of heart emojis.

Leon’s expression darkened. “When were these taken?”

Elise feigned hesitation. “The security team found them this morning. They didn’t want to… *alarm* you.”

He stood slowly, his voice a lethal calm. “Cancel my meetings.”

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**4:30 PM**

Stephanie knelt in the mansion’s attic, sweat dripping down her spine as she fed documents into a metal trash can. Flames devoured her pregnancy journals, ultrasound photos, every trace of the child’s existence *before* the Vanclairs could weaponize them. Her laptop flickered beside her, a progress bar inching toward 100% as it wiped her search history, emails, cloud backups—*everything*.

A door slammed downstairs. Leon’s voice boomed through the house: *“Stephanie!”*

She slammed the laptop shut, shoved it into the wall vent, and kicked the ashes into a scatter of gray snow.

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**5:02 PM**

Leon’s study reeked of shattered glass and single-malt rage. He hurled a decanter against the wall, amber liquid bleeding into the carpet. *“Affair.”* The word curdled in his mouth. That spineless gardener’s son, that *traitor*, smuggling his wife out from under him—

A notification chimed on his phone: *Motion detected: East Wing Bedroom.*

The camera feed showed Stephanie’s empty room, curtains fluttering in the open window.

**5:15 PM**

Stephanie’s sneakers gripped the ivy-covered trellis as she climbed down, her backpack heavy with cash and passports. The guard patrol had just passed—*thirty-second window*.

*Almost there.*

Her foot slipped. A branch snapped.

“Hey!” A beam of light speared the darkness. “Stop!”

She dropped the last ten feet, pain screaming through her ankles as she bolted toward the forest. Behind her, shouts erupted, dogs barking. The safe house address burned in her mind like a prayer.

*Run. Don’t look back.*

The guard’s flashlight caught the glint of her wedding ring as she vanished into the trees. He raised his radio. “Code Black. She’s heading north.”

Somewhere, Adriana smiled.

The forest swallowed Stephanie whole, its skeletal branches clawing at her as she staggered deeper into the shadows. Her ankles screamed with every step, the pain radiating up her legs like live wires. Behind her, the shouts of guards and the primal barks of dogs crescendoed, slicing through the night. *Code Black.* The Vanclairs’ emergency protocol—no mercy, no excuses.

She veered left, away from the moonlit path, and plunged into a thicket of brambles. Thorns tore at her clothes and skin, but she welcomed the sting—it meant she was still alive. The backpack, heavy with cash and passports, thumped against her spine, a grim reminder of how close freedom was. *Jake’s safe house. North. Two miles.* She’d memorized the map, but the terrain was wilder than she’d imagined, the darkness disorienting.

A gunshot cracked. Birds exploded from the trees. Stephanie froze, her breath trapped in her throat.

“Spread out!” a guard barked. “She can’t have gone far!”

**Leon’s War Room**

The chandelier in Leon’s study trembled as he slammed his fist on the desk, the photos of Stephanie and Jake scattering like cursed confetti. “You let her *out*?” he snarled at Elise, his secretary, who stood rigid in the doorway.

Elise’s mask of loyalty slipped just enough to reveal a flicker of satisfaction. “The false affair evidence worked perfectly. You believed it—just as Adriana said you would.”

Leon’s head snapped up. “*Adriana?*”

The door creaked open. Adriana glided in, a panther in a pencil skirt, her smile venomous. “You didn’t think I’d leave your little war to chance, did you?” She tapped the photos. “Now you have motive to destroy them both. Poetic, really.”

Leon lunged, but Adriana sidestepped, her laugh sharp. “Save your rage for Stephanie. She’s halfway to Jake by now.”

**The River’s Edge**

Stephanie waded into the icy stream, the water numbing her throbbing ankles. The current tugged at her knees, threatening to pull her under, but she pushed forward, praying the dogs would lose her scent. The safe house was close—she could see the silhouette of the vineyard’s crumbling stone wall through the trees.

A flashlight beam skimmed the water. She ducked behind a boulder, her heart thrashing.

“*Stephanie!*” Jake’s voice, urgent, from somewhere ahead.

She hesitated. A trap?

“Now!” Jake hissed, emerging from the shadows, his arm outstretched.

She lunged toward him, but a guard’s roar cut through the night: “There!”

**The Standoff**

Jake yanked her behind the stone wall as bullets peppered the ground. “They’ve got drones,” he panted, thrusting a key into her hand. “Cottage basement—tunnels lead to the highway. Go!”

“What about you?”

“I’ll hold them off.” He pressed a pistol into her grip, his eyes fierce. “*Run.*”

Stephanie fled, the key biting into her palm. The cottage loomed ahead, its door hanging askew. She slipped inside, down the rotted stairs, into the damp cellar.

A figure stepped from the shadows.

Adriana.

“Hello, runaway,” she purred, aiming a sleek silver gun. “Did you really think I’d let you steal *my* ending?”

The basement door exploded inward. Leon stood framed in the doorway, his own weapon raised—not at Stephanie, but at Adriana. “You forget,” he growled, “Vanclairs finish their own fights.”

Three guns. Three betrayals. Somewhere, the dogs howled.