12:02 PM.
Nikolai stirred, groaning as the heavy weight of sleep clung to his limbs like wet cement. His temples throbbed, and his tongue felt dry, as if he'd been asleep for days. He reached out instinctively, searching for her—his hand patting the sheets beside him, expecting to feel Elara's warm form curled against him.
But there was nothing.
"...Elara?" he murmured, his voice low and gravelly.
He blinked several times, frowning as he sat up and looked at the alarm clock on the nightstand.
12:02.
Noon.
His body went rigid.
Nikolai Volkov never slept past 8 a.m.—his internal clock was finely tuned, wired by years of discipline, stress, and survival. He could function on four hours of sleep if needed. His body didn't just shut down like this.
The room spun slightly when he stood, a nauseating wave of dizziness hitting him in the gut. His head pounded mercilessly, and his muscles were sluggish.
Something wasn't right.
Something was very, very wrong.
"Elara!" he called, louder this time, his voice sharp with alarm. He grabbed his robe, throwing it over his shoulders as he stormed out of the bedroom barefoot, checking every room with growing intensity. His voice echoed through the penthouse as he searched:
The kitchen? Empty.
The living room? Silent.
Guest bedroom? Nothing.
Bathrooms? All vacant.
The balcony doors were locked from the inside, and there were no signs of a struggle, no broken glass, no smashed furniture. Everything was disturbingly clean.
His breath caught as his mind sharpened with cold calculation. He made his way to his study, every step more certain than the last.
He knew her well.
He just hadn't expected her to be this bold.
The moment he opened the door to his study, he spotted it—the bottom drawer of his desk, the one he always kept shut and bolted. It was ajar, just slightly. Barely noticeable, unless you were looking.
He yanked it open, and his stomach twisted.
Empty.
Gone.
Every last dollar in that stash—well over $30,000 in carefully counted bills—was gone.
"Fuck." The curse came out like a growl, sharp and venomous.
She had run.
She had played him—down to the smile, the soft eyes, the fake surrender. Last night, she had looked him in the eyes, asked for peace, told him she wanted to start over.
He had believed her.
Goddamn it, he had believed her.
Nikolai turned, storming back into the bedroom, adrenaline burning through his veins now. He needed answers—needed to understand how far she had gone.
Her phone was still on the nightstand.
Of course it was. She was smart enough to know he could trace it. He picked it up, swiping across the screen just as a new text lit up from Mr. Lenox:
> Elara, is everything alright? You were supposed to be in today. Are you okay?
Nikolai exhaled through his nose, steadying his hand as he typed back.
> Hi Mr. Lenox. I'm so sorry, my grandfather passed away suddenly. I had to leave in a rush to be with my family. I'll keep you updated. I apologize for the silence.
He hit send and tossed the phone back onto the nightstand without a second thought. Whether the man believed it or not didn't matter—he'd just bought himself a little time.
Enough time to find her.
He stormed into the guest room, throwing open the drawers, tearing open the closet. Her ID was gone. All the emergency money she kept stashed in her purse, the comfortable travel shoes, the old hoodie she wore on long rides—all gone.
The realization settled in, heavy and bitter: this wasn't an impulsive decision.
She had planned this.
He clenched his jaw, breathing through his nose, forcing his brain to focus. The pieces clicked together with horrifying clarity—the dinner she insisted on cooking, the wine, the sudden change of heart, the soft words before bed, the way she placed his hand on her stomach and spoke of their future. She had played him like a puppet. His pride stung with the sharpness of a thousand cuts.
But still, one question lingered in his mind:
How the hell did she knock him out?
He went into his bathroom, opening the cabinet with calculated force. Bottles lined the shelves—painkillers, antiseptics, allergy meds, and prescriptions he rarely touched. His gaze flicked over the labels, and then he saw it.
The sleeping pills.
One bottle was gone.
He chuckled.
A dry, humorless laugh that held no joy—just quiet disbelief.
"She used my own damn pills against me…" he muttered, pressing his hand to his forehead.
It was almost impressive.
Almost.
But not enough to spare her.
He pulled out his phone and dialed Sergei.
The man picked up after one ring. "Boss."
"Find Elara Dawson," Nikolai said, his voice sharp, ice-cold. "You have twenty-four hours. If I don't have her location by then, I'm cutting your fucking hand off and mailing it to your mother."
"Understood."
He hung up.
The silence in the penthouse gnawed at him like a disease. Everywhere he turned, he saw pieces of her—her scent still clung to the sheets, her laugh still echoed in the walls, her presence lingering in the quiet.
And now she was gone.
The baby… gone.
His connection to her… severed.
But she had underestimated just how far he was willing to go to keep what was his.
He wasn't just angry.
He was broken.
And broken men were dangerous.
She would come back to him.
One way or another.
Even if he had to chain her to the goddamn floor.
The sun had begun its descent behind the steel and glass towers of the city skyline, casting long golden shadows that bled across the marble floor of the penthouse. But Nikolai Volkov didn't notice the beauty of the setting sun. He was too busy pacing like a caged predator, his jaw tight, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. The clock ticked mockingly in the background—every passing second only sharpening the knife of his frustration.
It had been hours since he woke to find her gone.
Hours since he realized she had used his own pills, his own affection, and his own damn trust against him.
And still—nothing.
He hadn't told his parents. Not yet. Not even Natalia, who would have read the truth in his face the moment she looked at him. This wasn't a family matter. Not yet. It was his to fix. His failure to repair.
Because he would find Elara.
And when he did, he wouldn't leave anything to chance again. She wouldn't leave his sight—not for food, not for air, and certainly not for another escape attempt. If she so much as breathed too deeply, someone would be there. Surveillance, guards, cameras—everything.
Because now, she wasn't just someone he loved.
She was the mother of his child.
And she had chosen to run.
The idea of her terminating the pregnancy in some quiet foreign clinic sent a wave of nausea crashing through him. It consumed his thoughts. What if this whole runaway act was just a detour—to disappear long enough to get rid of the baby and come back with no proof?
No.
He couldn't let that happen. He wouldn't.
Just then, a knock echoed through the penthouse, sharp and sudden.
He moved.
Like a bullet, he stormed toward the door and yanked it open. Standing there, slightly disheveled and worn, was Sergei. He looked like he'd wrestled with Hell itself to get what he carried—a thick manila file clutched in one hand, the edges slightly worn and creased. His face was tight, jaw locked, and his shirt was stained with what Nikolai didn't care to question.
"Where is she?" Nikolai demanded before Sergei could even step inside.
Sergei wordlessly entered, and Nikolai shut the door behind him, locking it with a metallic click. He led him to the living room where he threw the file down on the table between them.
"She was good," Sergei began, voice low and edged with reluctant admiration. "Damn good. If it were anyone else, we wouldn't have found a single breadcrumb. She covered her tracks well."
Nikolai folded his arms, his stare sharp as steel. "How?"
Sergei opened the file, revealing a spread of photos, cab receipts, and blurry surveillance stills.
"She started by making three separate cab stops right after leaving the penthouse. The drivers didn't think much of her—just another woman out in the city. She paid in cash every time, small bills, no receipts. She got off randomly, walking through alleyways and transferring to another cab. She was trying to shake a tail she didn't even know was there."
Nikolai's brow furrowed, each word tightening his muscles. "Then how the hell did you find anything?"
"One of the cabs had a camera," Sergei said, pointing to a grainy image. It was Elara—hood pulled low, face slightly tilted toward the window, but unmistakable. "The timestamp put her near 32nd Street at around 9:40 p.m. That was just enough to start narrowing down her route."
He flipped to the next page.
"She checked into a cheap motel under the name Ellen Dawson. Cash payment, no ID. No cameras in the building—place is a dump, barely legal. We only found her because one of our guys was doing a sweep nearby and recognized her from an old photo. But by the time we circled back this morning, she was already gone."
Nikolai tensed. "Gone where?"
Sergei tapped the last page of the file. "JFK Airport. She used her real ID to buy a one-way ticket. Lisbon, Portugal."
Nikolai's breath left him in a slow, heavy exhale.
Portugal.
She had gone international.
Of course she had.
"I don't know where she's staying there," Sergei added. "No hotel bookings in her name. She didn't pre-book online. Probably paid cash or got help once she landed. All we know for sure is that she boarded the flight, and that she made it into Lisbon."
Nikolai stepped back from the table and ran both hands through his hair, pushing back the thick strands as he stared out the penthouse window, his mind moving faster than a machine.
Portugal.
She had really left the country. She had really planned this.
"She must have been watching me," he said under his breath. "She waited for the perfect window. Just long enough to make me believe she'd forgiven me."
Sergei said nothing, just stood there with the weariness of a man who'd spent the night moving mountains for one answer.
Nikolai turned back toward him. "I want boots on the ground in Lisbon by midnight."
"They're already boarding. Three men, off the books. I'm going too."
"Good." He nodded, his jaw hard. "I want every hostel, motel, apartment, and AirBnB combed. I want every cash transaction flagged. I want every doctor's clinic monitored."
Sergei nodded. "And when we find her?"
Nikolai's eyes darkened.
"We bring her home. I don't care if she's kicking, screaming, or begging. We bring her back. And when she's back, she won't leave my side again. Ever."
There was a flicker of something dangerous in his tone—possessive, primal, and final.
Because this wasn't just about control anymore.
This was war.
And Nikolai Volkov never lost a war.