Eliana pushed back her chair with a scrape that echoed through the alcove, the sound cutting through the tension like glass. Her legs felt unsteady, but her resolve was ironclad. She stood, her soft heart-shaped face set in determination, her black coat brushing against the table as she gathered her bag. "No," she said firmly, her honey eyes blazing with a mix of pain and triumph.
"There’s nothing to work through. You’ve had your chances—decades of them—and you blew every one. Goodbye, Mirabel. Don’t follow . Don’t contact . We’re done." With that, she turned on her heel, her long curls swaying like a banner of defiance, and strode out of the alcove. The maître d’ glanced up in surprise as she passed, but Eliana didn’t stop. She pushed through the restaurant’s heavy wooden door, stepping into the crisp Kensington evening air, where the ivy-covered walls seed to close in like protective arms. Her heart raced, a whirlwind of emotions—relief, sorrow, anger—swirling inside her. She was looking towards hailing a cab at the curb, but her phone kept buzzing incessantly in her pocket, but she ignored it for the mont, needing the space to breathe.
Back in the alcove, Mirabel sat frozen for a beat, her tears drying as quickly as they’d co. The hurt lingered, unacknowledged, a thorn in her side she refused to pull. But business was business. She straightened her posture, her elegant features hardening into the icy mask she wore so well. Glancing toward the door where Lydia stood sentinel, her loyal assistant with her sharp bob haircut and unreadable expression, Mirabel nodded subtly. "Lydia," she said in a low, commanding tone, her voice devoid of the earlier pleading. "Eliana’s made her choice. Proceed with Plan B. Imdiately."
Lydia, ever efficient, inclined her head in acknowledgnt, her dark eyes flickering with understanding. She stepped just outside the alcove for privacy, pulling out her sleek black phone. Her fingers danced across the screen as she dialed a number she’d morized weeks ago. The line connected after one ring. "It’s go ti," she said crisply, her voice like polished steel. "Target is leaving Le Jardin Secret on foot, heading east on the side street. She’s alone, vulnerable. Capture her cleanly—no ss, no witnesses. Use the van; sedate if necessary. Mirabel wants her unhard but secured. Move now." She hung up without waiting for confirmation, knowing the team of burly n she’d stationed nearby—hired shadows on Mirabel’s di—would act swiftly. They were pros, dressed in nondescript clothes, blending into the London crowd like ghosts. Lydia reentered the alcove, her expression neutral. "It’s done, ma’am. They’ll have her within minutes."
Mirabel allowed herself a small, satisfied smile, sipping her chamomile tea as if nothing had transpired. "Good. Sotis, darling, family needs a little... persuasion."
anwhile, across the city, Henry Jackson’s world had erupted into chaos the mont Eliana’s text lit up his phone. The aspiring doctor had been buried in dical textbooks in the university library, his tall fra hunched over a wooden desk, his sharp features illuminated by the glow of a laptop screen. His warm eyes had widened in alarm as he read her words: "Henry, Mirabel Vexley just ambushed outside campus. She’s taking to talk. In her car now. Don’t worry, but... keep your phone on." Panic surged through him like adrenaline—Eliana, the woman he loved, pregnant and alone with that viper? No way. He’d installed a tracking app on her phone months ago, with her consent, after she’d co to London with him. It was a precaution, he’d said, and now it was a lifeline.
"Damn it," Henry muttered under his breath, slamming his book shut and grabbing his coat. His heart pounded with a mix of fear and determination—fear for Eliana, determination to protect her, as he always had. He bolted from the library, his handso face set in grim resolve, weaving through clusters of students chatting about exams and weekend plans. Outside, the London chill bit at him, but he barely noticed. He pulled out his phone, activating the tracker—it showed her at Le Jardin Secret in Kensington. "Got you," he whispered, then dialed his bodyguards. They were a perk of his wealthy family background, always lurking in plain sight—disguised as fellow students or pedestrians, ready at a mont’s notice.
"Team, it’s Henry," he barked into the phone as he jogged toward the parking lot. "Eliana’s in trouble. Mirabel Vexley’s got her at a restaurant in Kensington. We’re going now. et at my car—lot B. Move!" The guards—two burly n nad Matthew and Theo, both ex-military with stoic deanors—responded affirmatively, erging from their hiding spots like shadows detaching from walls.
Henry slid into the passenger seat of his black SUV, his mind racing. Matthew, raced towards the driver side. He was a broad-shouldered man with a buzz cut and a perpetual scowl, jumped behind the wheel, while Theo climbed into the back, checking his concealed weapon with practiced efficiency. "Floor it, Matthew," Henry ordered, his voice steady despite the knot in his stomach. "Tracker’s live—she’s still there, but if Mirabel’s involved, this could go south fast."
The engine roared to life, tires squealing as they peeled out of the lot and onto the busy London street. Traffic was a nightmare—red buses lumbering like elephants, taxis darting like foxes—but Matthew navigated with skill, weaving through lanes. Henry gripped the dashboard, his thoughts on Eliana: her hopeful smile, her resilience, the way she’d trusted him enough to escape with him. "Co on, co on," he urged, glancing at the tracker app. She was moving now—leaving the restaurant?
Suddenly, without warning, a nondescript gray sedan barreled out of a side alley, its headlights flashing like predatory eyes. It ca from nowhere, accelerating with malicious intent. "Watch out!" Henry shouted, but it was too late. The sedan slamd into the SUV’s driver’s side with a deafening crunch of tal and shattering glass. The impact jolted Henry sideways, his head snapping against the window as airbags deployed in a whoosh of white fabric and chemical scent. Matthew grunted in pain, the steering wheel crushing against his chest, while Theo cursed from the back, scrambling to assess the damage.
The world spun for Henry, his vision blurring as pain radiated from his shoulder. Smoke hissed from the crumpled hood, and the acrid sll of burnt rubber filled the air. Pedestrians gasped and pointed, phones already out to capture the "accident." But Henry knew better—this was no coincidence. Mirabel’s reach was long, and now it had struck. As sirens wailed in the distance, he fumbled for his phone, his last thought before darkness crept in: Eliana... hold on.
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