Chapter 15: Gone

The cellar air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and gunpowder. Stephanie’s back pressed against the damp stone wall, her eyes darting between Leon’s trembling gun and Adriana’s cruel smirk. The PI’s voice still hissed through Leon’s phone, tinny and urgent: *“Sir, the medical records—she’s pregnant. The child is definitely yours.”*

For a heartbeat, the world froze. Leon’s grip on his weapon faltered, his gaze snapping to Stephanie’s abdomen. Adriana seized the moment.

“You *idiot*,” she spat, swinging her own gun toward Leon. “You let her trap you with a *bastard*—”

Stephanie moved. She lunged for the cellar stairs, her body a blur of desperation. A gunshot roared, the bullet ricocheting off the iron railing as she scrambled upward. Behind her, Leon and Adriana’s shouts tangled into a cacophony of betrayal.

*Run. Don’t look back.*

---

The vineyard’s skeletal vines whipped past as Jake’s truck careened down the dirt road, headlights off. Stephanie clutched the door handle, her breath ragged, the forest’s shadows clawing at the windows.

“They’ll have roadblocks,” Jake muttered, eyes glued to the rearview mirror. “But I know a route.”

He veered onto a forgotten logging trail, the truck bucking over roots and rocks. Stephanie’s hand drifted to her stomach, her mind replaying the PI’s words. *The child is definitely yours.* Leon knew now. He’d tear the world apart to drag her back.

Jake tossed her a burner phone and a manila envelope. “New passport, birth certificate, bank accounts. You’re Clara West. Canadian. Widowed.”

She flipped open the passport. Her face stared back, but the woman in the photo was harder, older—a stranger. “What about you?”

“I’ll be right behind you,” he lied.

---

Leon’s fist shattered the vanity mirror. Glass shards rained into the sink, blood streaking the porcelain as he gripped the edge, his reflection splintered into a dozen madmen. The note lay on the bed, its cursive elegant and vicious:

*You never deserved us.*

Her wedding ring sat atop it, a golden shackle discarded. He’d chosen it himself—a flawless diamond, a symbol of ownership. Now it mocked him.

Marguerite appeared in the doorway, her composure cracking. “The guards lost her in the woods. The dogs—someone scattered cayenne pepper—”

“*Burn the forest down!*” Leon roared, hurling a perfume bottle at the wall. “I want her *found*!”

His phone buzzed. The PI again. “Sir, the pregnancy files—she’s due in eight weeks. There’s more. She falsified the earlier ultrasounds. The baby… it’s a boy.”

Leon stilled. A son. An heir. *His* heir.

“Offer a reward,” he said softly. “Ten million. Alive.”

---

The airstrip was a ghostly gash in the wilderness, the single-engine plane’s propellers whirring like wasps. Stephanie shoved the passport into her coat, her legs wobbling as Jake helped her climb into the cabin.

“Switzerland first,” he said, handing her a duffel bag stuffed with cash. “Then wherever you want. There’s a midwife in Zurich—she’ll keep quiet.”

She hesitated. “Come with me.”

He smiled, bittersweet. “Someone has to be the decoy.”

The engine roared. Through the fogged window, she watched him melt into the pines, a shadow among shadows.

---

Leon’s helicopter circled the vineyard at dawn, its blades gouging the air. Below, guards combed the ashes of the cottage, the tunnels, the riverbed—nothing.

Adriana waited in the penthouse when he returned, her cheek bandaged from the cellar skirmish. “Sentimentality made you weak,” she said. “Let me handle this.”

He backhanded her. She crumpled to the floor, laughing.

“You’ll never be rid of me, Leon. I’m in your contracts, your secrets, your *blood*.”

His phone rang. The PI. “We traced a plane to Zurich. A Clara West boarded it last night.”

Leon’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Bring me my son.”

The Swiss Alps blurred beneath the plane. Stephanie drowsed, lulled by the hum of engines, her hand resting on her belly. A kick fluttered against her palm—*alive, alive, alive.*

The pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom. “Ma’am, we’ve got company.”

She jerked upright. Through the clouds, a black jet loomed, its tail emblazoned with the Vanclair crest.

The co-pilot screamed. “They’re locking onto us—!”

The world exploded in light.

**Chapter 15: Gone**

The explosion tore through the sky, a deafening roar that shook the plane violently. Stephanie’s body slammed against the seatbelt as the cabin shuddered, oxygen masks dropping like specters from the ceiling. The co-pilot’s scream was swallowed by the blaring alarms. Through the window, the Vanclair jet banked sharply, its shadow looming like a predator.

“Brace for impact!” the pilot shouted, fighting the controls as the plane spiraled downward.

Stephanie clutched her abdomen, her mind screaming one word: *Survive.* The Alps rushed up to meet them—jagged peaks, snow like shattered glass. The plane clipped a ridge, shearing off a wing. Metal screamed. Then, darkness.

Cold. That was the first thing she felt. Cold, and the metallic taste of blood. Stephanie pried her eyes open, her vision blurred. The plane’s fuselage lay split open like a gutted animal, snowdrifts swallowing the wreckage. The pilot and co-pilot were motionless, their seats mangled.

She unbuckled herself, gasping as pain shot through her ribs. *The baby.* Her hands trembled as she pressed them to her stomach. A faint kick answered. Relief flooded her, sharp and dizzying.

Staggering to her feet, she scavenged the debris: a first-aid kit, a half-crushed bottle of water, and Jake’s duffel bag of cash. Outside, the wind howled, the storm swallowing the mountainside. She wrapped herself in a torn survival blanket and stumbled into the white void.

Jake watched the news report in a dingy motel outside Zurich, his knuckles whitening around the remote. *Plane crash in the Alps. No survivors confirmed.* The screen showed smoldering wreckage, rescue teams circling.

“No,” he whispered.

Then, a detail: the crash site was miles off the flight’s intended path. Jake’s eyes narrowed. Stephanie would’ve known to jump. He grabbed his keys.

---

Stephanie limped into the abandoned hunting cabin, her breath fogging in the frozen air. She barricaded the door with a rusted stove and collapsed by the fireplace, sparking damp matches until one caught. The flames revealed a radio beneath a tarp—cracked but intact.

Static hissed as she twisted the dial. A voice broke through: *“…search suspended due to storm… Vanclair heir presumed dead…”*

“Not yet,” she muttered, teeth chattering.

A knock rattled the door.

“Stephanie!” Jake’s voice, raw with urgency.

She hesitated, then yanked the barricade aside. He stood haloed in snowlight, a duffel slung over his shoulder. Without a word, he pulled her into a crushing embrace.

“They think you’re gone,” he said. “Time to vanish for good.”

---

The airstrip was a threadbare strip of tarmac in the Slovakian wilderness. A crop duster idled in the dawn light, its pilot a grizzled man with a cigarette dangling from his lips.

Jake handed her a manila envelope. “Clara West. Born in Vancouver. Widowed. No family.”

Stephanie flipped through the documents—passport, birth certificate, medical records. “How?”

“Paid a forger in Bratislava. Best in the business.” He paused. “There’s a cottage in Newfoundland. Quiet. Remote. Midwife nearby who doesn’t ask questions.”

She stared at him. “You’re not coming.”

He looked away. “I’ll lead them off your trail. Leon’s fixated on me now.”

Her throat tightened. “Jake—”

“Don’t.” He pressed a pistol into her hand. “Keep this. And don’t trust anyone.”

The engine sputtered to life. As the plane taxied, she memorized his face—the scar on his brow, the stubborn set of his jaw. A final nod. Then, the sky swallowed him.

---

Leon’s fist connected with the mirror again, glass shards embedding in his knuckles. The note fluttered to the floor, her wedding ring gleaming beside it like a mockery. *You never deserved us.*

Marguerite hovered in the doorway, her composure fraying. “The investigators found the plane’s black box. No survivors.”

“Liar!” he roared. “She’s *alive*!”

His phone buzzed. The private investigator’s ID flashed.

“Well?” Leon barked.

“The medical records, sir. The pregnancy—it’s yours. And she falsified the due date. The child… it’s a boy.”

The words struck him like a bullet. A son. *His* son.

Leon’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Burn every city to the ground if you have to. Find her. *Now.*”

--

The crop duster soared above the clouds, Newfoundland’s coastline a smudge on the horizon. Stephanie cradled her stomach, the pistol cold in her lap.

In Zurich, Jake boarded a train to Prague, a decoy flight ticket to Buenos Aires in his pocket.

And in his penthouse, Leon stared at the Alps’ snowcaps through a whiskey haze, a photo of Stephanie’s ultrasound clutched in his bloody hand.

Somewhere, a phone rang.

“Sir—a woman matching her description was seen in Slovakia.”

Leon’s lips peeled into a snarl. “Bring me my son.”