The Runaway Heiress Returns For Revenge

The automatic glass doors slid open with a soft hiss, and the air that hit Adelina Alexander was pure November in New York. It was a damp, biting cold that slipped past the collar of her gray trench coat and made the fine hairs on her neck stand up. She pushed the silver Rimowa luggage cart forward, its wheels gliding silently over the polished floor of JFK's Terminal 4 arrivals hall. Her phone felt like a block of ice in her hand. A text from Clara glowed on the screen: a license plate number for an Uber. Black Lincoln Navigator. She was scanning the chaotic pickup area when a roar erupted from the crowd near the VIP exit. It wasn't a sound of panic. It was a sound of hunger. A dozen paparazzi were held back by a cordon of four broad-shouldered security guards in dark suits, who formed a moving human wall. The photographers, their cameras held high like weapons, strained against the barrier, a wave of black jackets and frantic energy. The sheer force of the commotion, a vortex of shouting and flashing lights, made Adelina instinctively pull her cart back, tucking herself into the relative safety behind a massive concrete support pillar. Flashes erupted, a storm of artificial lightning that bleached the cavernous hall white for a split second, again and again. It made her squint. Through the gaps in the swarming bodies, a figure emerged. Tall. Impossibly so. The kind of height that commanded a space just by existing in it. He wore a black custom-tailored overcoat, the lines so sharp they could have been cut from obsidian. One hand was shoved casually into his pocket. Gage Evans. The air left Adelina's lungs in a silent rush. It was as if a vacuum had been turned on in her chest. Three years, and the sight of his face-the severe line of his jaw, the cold indifference in his dark eyes-still had the power to stop her heart. Clinging to his arm was Ferne Brady, the supermodel of the moment, her smile as bright and manufactured as the camera flashes capturing it. She laughed at something he must have murmured, her fingers, adorned with a Van Cleef & Arpels bracelet, tightening on his bicep. One aggressive reporter broke through the security line, shoving a microphone toward Gage's face. "Mr. Evans! Is a wedding announcement imminent?" Gage didn't even glance at the man. He didn't get angry. He simply turned his head slightly, his expression softening into something that looked unnervingly like affection, and gently tucked a stray strand of blonde hair behind Ferne's ear. The simple, tender gesture was a punch to Adelina's gut. Her fingers tightened on the handle of her luggage cart, the cold metal biting into her skin. Her knuckles turned white. Ferne, playing her part perfectly, blushed and buried her face in the chest of his coat. A crosswind, created by the constant opening and closing of the terminal doors, swirled around the pillar. It carried a scent with it. Cedarwood and Bulgarian rose. Adelina's pupils contracted. It wasn't just a similar perfume. It was her perfume. The one she'd spent six months creating in a tiny perfumery in Paris three years ago. The one she had the formula for. The one that was exclusively, unequivocally, hers. A violent wave of nausea churned in her stomach. He wasn't just moving on. He was erasing her, replacing her, and using the most intimate piece of her identity to do it. It was a calculated act of cruelty, a message sent across an ocean: You are nothing. You are replaceable. She had to get out. Now. Adelina ducked her head, pulling the brim of her hat low. She spun the cart around, aiming for a different exit, away from the spectacle. One of the cart's wheels caught on a groove in the marble floor, letting out a short, sharp squeal. The sound was insignificant, lost in the noise of the airport. But it wasn't lost to him. Across the hall, Gage's head snapped up. His gaze, which had been lazily fixed on the chaos in front of him, suddenly sharpened. It cut through the crowd, through the flashing lights, like a laser, and locked onto the back of a gray trench coat. The hand in his pocket clenched into a fist. The fabric of his coat strained over his knuckles. Ferne felt the muscles in his arm go rigid. "Gage?" she asked, her voice small. She looked up, trying to follow his line of sight, but saw only a throng of travelers. He blinked, and the mask of cool detachment slammed back into place. "Clear them out," he said to his security guard, his voice flat and devoid of any emotion. Adelina didn't look back. She pushed the cart faster, her heels clicking a frantic rhythm against the floor. She practically burst through the revolving glass doors, into the biting, rain-soaked air. The cold was a shock, but it was better than the suffocating atmosphere inside. An icy drizzle slicked her face. She spotted the black Lincoln Navigator and yanked open the back door, her hands trembling. From inside the terminal, Gage stood motionless, watching the Uber pull away from the curb and merge into the river of taillights. A sharp, familiar pain twisted in his gut, hot and searing. He pressed a hand against his stomach, hidden by his coat. Ferne tried to take his arm again, a look of concern on her face. "Are you okay?" He pushed her hand away, not gently. "Wait in the car." Without another word, he turned and walked toward the black Rolls-Royce Phantom waiting at the curb, his face a mask of stone.