Elara carefully slid off the bed, her bare feet barely making a sound against the polished floor. She didn't look back. She couldn't. Not at him—sprawled out on the mattress, his expression peaceful in slumber, completely unaware of what she had done. What she was about to do. Her bag was already packed, hidden behind the armchair near the window, with everything she needed inside: identification, the cash she'd swiped from his study earlier, an extra set of clothes, a hoodie, and a scarf to shield her face if needed.
Her phone lay on the nightstand. She picked it up once, stared at the blank screen in silence, then placed it back down gently. He could trace her with it. That phone was practically a leash in his world—a small metal cage wrapped in algorithms and location pings. She wasn't going to give him the advantage.
The digital clock read 8:12 PM. Night had truly settled in. New York never slept, and the streets outside the penthouse pulsed with life—honking horns, distant sirens, and the hum of city breath. But she could move in that noise. She could disappear into it.
Elara slipped out of the room and into the living area, her steps light and fast. Every creak of the wood beneath her feet felt like a gunshot in her ears, but Nikolai didn't stir. She made her way to the private elevator and took it down in silence, the ride down from the penthouse to the lobby stretching endlessly, her heart pounding in rhythm with every descending floor.
When the doors slid open, she didn't run.
Running made people look.
She walked—calm, purposeful. Just another woman heading out for a late-night errand. The doorman gave her a polite nod, not recognizing her under the hoodie she had pulled over her head.
Outside, the air was crisp, cutting slightly at her cheeks. She kept her head down and walked for three blocks, then stopped near a busy intersection and hailed a yellow cab. She gave an address to the driver—random, on the other side of Manhattan.
It wasn't her destination. It was just the first stop.
By the time the cab dropped her off twenty-five minutes later, she was already planning her next move. She walked to another street and caught a different cab. Then another. She looped in circles, backtracked, crossed bridges, and dipped into unfamiliar neighborhoods. Each location was nothing but a temporary foothold, a way to scatter her digital and physical trail. No cards. No phone. Just cash and instinct.
She didn't know where she was going. Not really.
She just knew it had to be far.
Out of the city. Maybe even out of the country.
If she made it to a quiet border town, she could find someone to forge papers. She could take a bus or hitch a ride, make her way to Canada or Mexico and then disappear completely. Maybe Spain, maybe Romania, anywhere with wide streets and anonymity. Anywhere that didn't have Nikolai Volkov's name etched into every corner of power.
By the time she finally felt the exhaustion dragging her limbs like weights, it was almost 2 a.m.
She had ended up in Queens, in one of the seedier parts of the borough. The streets were narrow, dimly lit by old lamps, and the shops had rusted gates pulled down for the night. It was far from the polished, glass-and-marble world she'd been trapped in for so long—and that made it perfect.
She found a motel.
It was tucked between a liquor store and an auto shop, a tired-looking building with flaking paint and a flickering red neon sign that read: "MOTEL. Weekly Rates. Vacancy." The front door creaked when she pushed it open.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and something sour, like mildew soaked into the walls. The reception area was empty except for a balding man behind a smudged plexiglass divider. He didn't look up from the tiny TV playing a rerun of some detective show.
"I need a room," she said softly, pulling out the exact amount of cash he would want.
The man squinted at her, eyeing the hoodie, the tired eyes, the way she kept her face down. But he said nothing. Just took the money and handed her a rusty keycard.
"Room 203. Don't make noise."
"I won't," she whispered.
The hallway smelled like stale cigarettes and sadness. The carpet was torn in places, the wallpaper peeling like dry skin. When she reached Room 203, she slid the card through the reader. It took three tries before the door unlocked.
The room was tiny—barely enough space for a single bed, a nightstand with a broken lamp, and a bathroom whose door barely closed all the way. But it was a roof. A safe roof, at least for tonight.
She threw the bolt on the door and dropped the bag on the chair. She peeled off her hoodie, kicked off her shoes, and collapsed onto the squeaky bed. Her body ached from the adrenaline crash and the weight of everything she had just done.
She lay there for a while, staring at the ceiling that was stained in one corner from a past water leak.
Everything felt distant.
Her name.
Her life.
The man sleeping peacefully back in the penthouse, probably still lost in whatever drugged dreamland she had sentenced him to.
And the child she now carried.
She turned to her side, pulling the thin blanket over her shoulder. Her hand hovered over her flat stomach for a long time before finally resting there. Silent. Still. A bitter mix of emotion rolled through her—grief, relief, fear, and the strangest ache of guilt.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
She wasn't sure if the apology was meant for Nikolai.
Or for the baby.
Or maybe even for herself.
Tomorrow, she would figure out her next step. She would leave New York if she could, vanish without a trace. She would make sure that no one—especially Nikolai—would ever find her.
But tonight…
Tonight, she would sleep.
In a cheap motel, under a thin blanket, surrounded by silence.
Free—for now.
---------------
The dim glow of early dawn crept through the moth-bitten curtains when Elara's eyes fluttered open. It was quiet—the kind of quiet that only existed before the world truly woke up. For a brief moment, she lay still, the stiff motel mattress creaking slightly beneath her. Her body was sore, her muscles tight from the tension of the past twenty-four hours. But her mind… her mind was sharp now. Alert. And most importantly—decided.
She slowly sat up, the cold air biting at her skin through her thin shirt. The events of the previous night came rushing back in brutal clarity: the drugged wine, the performance over dinner, the look on Nikolai's face when she smiled at him and pretended. Pretended that she had chosen him. Pretended she was willing to stay.
But she hadn't.
Because she couldn't.
Elara rose to her feet, stretched her aching limbs, and moved to the small bathroom. The water from the tap was cold, but it didn't bother her. She washed her face, brushed her teeth with a disposable brush she had brought with her, and changed into a plain T-shirt layered under a thick coat. She pulled her hair into a low bun, slipped on a baseball cap, and tightened the laces of her sneakers. No makeup, no perfume, nothing that would draw unnecessary attention.
By 5:15 AM, she had checked out of the motel with barely a glance from the sleepy-eyed receptionist. Her boots hit the sidewalk with quiet determination. The air outside was brisk, brushing her skin like ghost fingers as the city slowly stirred to life. The sun hadn't yet broken through the horizon, but pale hints of light teased the edges of the sky.
She inhaled deeply.
The kind of breath that hurt in the lungs, but tasted like freedom.
For the first time in days—maybe even weeks—Elara felt like she could actually breathe. The tightness in her chest had loosened just enough to remind her what it felt like to move without chains.
She turned a corner and hailed a cab with a flick of her hand. The driver, an older man with graying temples and sleepy eyes, slowed to a stop. She slid into the backseat.
"Where to?" he asked.
"Brooklyn Heights, near the Promenade."
The driver nodded and pulled away from the curb.
The first stop wasn't necessary, not really. But she needed time to think, to plan, to breathe again without feeling watched. She got off at the Promenade and walked along the edge of the railing, watching as the East River shimmered beneath the growing light. The Brooklyn Bridge loomed in the distance, stoic and silent. She thought about her parents then.
Her dad, the overprotective neurosurgeon who texted her constantly to check if she was eating properly.
Her mom, quiet but observant, always knowing when something was wrong even before Elara opened her mouth.
And Maya—her best friend, her anchor, the sister she never had.
God, what would they think when they realized she was gone?
She paused at a bench and took out a piece of paper from her bag. No phones, no texts, no traceable communication. Just words—simple, raw, honest.
She began writing letters.
One to her mother and father. One to Maya.
She didn't tell them where she was going—she couldn't. But she told them she was safe. That this was her choice. That she loved them deeply, and she was sorry.
"I'm not running from you. I'm running for me."
She folded each letter carefully and sealed them in separate envelopes. She'd find a way to get them posted once she was far enough.
After another ten minutes of stillness, she hailed a second cab.
"Midtown. Anywhere near a 24-hour diner," she said.
The driver took her uptown, and Elara sat silently in the back, watching the city speed past her like a blur of memories she was already beginning to let go of.
The diner was warm, its neon lights buzzing faintly as she ordered the cheapest breakfast they had—dry toast and coffee. She didn't eat much, but she needed a reason to sit, to rest, to wait until the airport opened its gates to early flyers.
By the time she left the diner, the city was well awake. Traffic thickened. People bustled down sidewalks in business attire and headphones, eyes locked on their phones, unaware of the girl in the baseball cap slipping into a third cab.
"JFK," she said.
The driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror. "International or domestic?"
"International."
She said it with a certainty that surprised even her.
She didn't know where she was going yet. But it had to be far. Anywhere but here.
The drive took longer—thirty-five minutes through thickening traffic—but she didn't mind. She sat still, staring out the window as the cab wove through boroughs and bridges. Her heart beat hard, but steady. Her hands clenched her coat tightly, fingers digging into the fabric like a lifeline.
The skyline slowly fell behind her.
Freedom grew closer with every passing block.
When they arrived at JFK, she paid in cash—over-tipping the driver just in case—and stepped onto the sidewalk outside the massive terminal. The sliding glass doors parted as she entered the bustling hall, swallowed instantly by the sea of movement: luggage wheels dragging against tile, flight announcements echoing through the speakers, and people clinging to loved ones at departure gates.
She moved to the self-service ticketing kiosk.
One-way.
She didn't think. She just picked the farthest destination she could afford with the cash she had: Lisbon, Portugal.
It was far, disconnected, and she had read once that it was one of the quietest cities in Europe. A place where people got lost and lived slowly. It sounded perfect.
Ticket printed.
No return.
Boarding in two hours.
She moved quietly to the waiting area, her coat wrapped tight around her body, her nerves trembling beneath her skin. But despite the exhaustion, the fear, and the sorrow twisting in her chest…
She felt something else.
Hope.
A distant, unfamiliar, painful kind of hope—but hope nonetheless.
She was leaving.
And he didn't know.
At least, not yet.