Ashley's POV:
I didn't hear the roar of the car or the screech of the tires anymore.
All I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears and the frantic, echoing sound of Roman's footsteps hitting the pavement behind me.
He was right there.
My body snapped out of its frozen shock. I pivoted and launched myself at the revolving doors of the terminal, the cold glass a momentary, terrifying mirror to my panic.
I burst into the vast, brightly lit departures hall, the sudden warmth a disorienting shock after the freezing night.
The hall was a confusing landscape of polished tile, blinking screens, and hundreds of oblivious travelers.
I didn't see my parents.
I only saw chaos and distance.
"ASHLEY!"
His voice, amplified by the cavernous space, was no longer a purr; it was a hunting cry—deep, raw, and full of betrayed fury.
It sliced through the general hubbub of announcements and rolling luggage.
I didn't look back.
I knew he was scanning the crowd, his eyes sharp, his imposing figure easily towering over the flow of tourists and families.
I dodged around a baggage cart, my bare feet screaming on the marble floor.
I scanned the signs—Gate 34. I had to get to Gate 34.
The Human Shield
Just as I cut past the check-in counters, a sudden, deliberate obstruction appeared.
The black sedan that had driven me here was pulling away, leaving the silent driver standing directly in front of the terminal entrance, facing the chaos he had created.
He didn't make eye contact with me.
He didn't move.
He simply became a massive, still figure in Roman's path, blocking the narrow space between two pillars.
Roman, charging through the doors, had to stop short.
"Out of the way!" Roman snarled, his voice a promise of violence.
The driver remained silent, unmoving, his arms crossed over his chest—an immovable, expensive obstacle.
Roman's face, already contorted with rage, went from fury to absolute violence.
He shoved the driver with enough force to send any normal man sprawling, but the driver only stumbled a step before recovering, still blocking the straightest line.
That gave me the five, precious seconds I needed.
I reached the security queue, skipping the line and darting into the long corridor leading to the international gates.
The corridor seemed endless, lit by cold fluorescent light.
I passed by gate after gate, my fear mounting that I had misunderstood the gate number or that the plane had already left.
My breath came in ragged sobs, and a stitch tore through my side.
Finally, Gate 34.
The area was sparse. A flight attendant was standing by the desk, holding a clipboard. A few scattered passengers were waiting. And there, near the window, were my parents.
My mother, saw me first. Her eyes widened, and the relief that washed over her face was immediately replaced by sheer terror as she looked past me.
"Ashley!" my father, cried out, rushing towards me.
I ran straight into his arms, collapsing against his familiar warmth. "Dad! Now! We have to go now!"
He saw my raw feet, my ripped dress, the fear in my eyes, and he understood instantly.
"We were the last call, darling. Come on!"
My mom was already at the counter, her voice tight but composed. "We're here. The last three."
The flight attendant, a young woman with a calm demeanor, barely looked up. "Final boarding call. Please proceed immediately."
They started pulling me towards the flexible tunnel leading to the aircraft. I was dizzy, relying entirely on my parents' strength to propel me forward.
___________________________________________________________________________
We were halfway down the boarding ramp when I heard the explosion of sound back at the gate desk.
Roman had arrived.
"STOP! She is traveling against her will! She is a ward of the court! CALL SECURITY!" Roman's voice was a desperate, commanding roar, backed by the implicit authority of a man used to being obeyed.
The flight attendant paused, finally looking up, bewildered by the storm that had just descended upon her counter.
I didn't look back. My father was pushing me now, his voice a ragged whisper in my ear. "Don't stop, Ash! Don't look back!"
We hit the threshold of the aircraft—the bright, narrow entryway of the international jet. My mother shoved the boarding passes into the gate agent's hand without breaking stride.
"Final passenger!" my father shouted at the flight crew inside.
We burst into the cabin.
A uniformed man, the head purser, frowned at the commotion.
Then, from the jetway tunnel, Roman appeared.
He was running at full speed, his face a mask of primal, devastating fury.
His luxury jacket was torn, his hair was disheveled, and his eyes were locked onto mine.
He was less than thirty feet away.
The purser, seeing a charging man who looked like he belonged on the cover of a finance magazine and was clearly distressed, hesitated—but only for a split second.
My father threw his arm across the narrow aisle. "Get that door sealed now! We are clear!"
The purser, trained for unexpected incidents, made a split-second decision. He nodded curtly to the ground crew behind him.
I heard the heavy, mechanical WHOOSH of the exterior door beginning to retract and lock just as Roman reached the very end of the jetway.
He slammed his hands against the reinforced glass of the still-moving door, his face pressed against the transparent material.
He was screaming, but the sound of the sealing aircraft door muffled his rage into a frustrated, inhuman bellow.
I was pulled down the aisle, collapsing into a seat beside my mother.
The plane shuddered. The heavy thrum of the engines deepened. We were moving.
I pressed my face against the window, the image of Roman's face—contorted by pure, possessive betrayal—burned into my vision.
He stood there, a broken, powerful statue of rage, utterly defeated.
The aircraft turned onto the taxiway, accelerating away from the terminal.
The ground crew signaled thumbs up.
The flight attendant secured the door.
We were safe.
We were airborne.
And Roman was left behind, a furious, shattered man on the ground.
For a final, devastating moment, our eyes locked through the thick glass.
In his gaze, betrayal clashed with a cold, absolute promise of vengeance, turning his features into a mask of pure, murderous intent.
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Author's Note ✍️ :
Whew 😮💨—if you thought airports were stressful before, try sprinting barefoot through one while your psycho lover reenacts a scene from Taken 😬✈️.
Ashley really said, "Flight or fight?" and her feet chose flight (and a few blisters 🩸).
Roman, on the other hand, clearly didn't get the memo that "love bombing" isn't meant to end with actual explosions 💥.
Shoutout to the driver for pulling the ultimate "Not my circus, not my monkeys" move 🧍♂️.
MVP of passive resistance 👏.
Anyway, Ashley's got trauma and frequent flyer miles now. Silver linings, right? 😈✨
-Vaanni🖤