Chapter 38: Chapter Thirty-Eight — Departure
For three days Willow avoided Star Engineering.
The first morning she told herself it was temporary. She needed distance and perspective. Besides, she still had the program to finish, and her team could manage her absence better than her emotions could. By the second day it had become something else entirely.
Her phone lit up in waves with Zane’s name and Miles’s name and then Zane again. Missed calls. Messages. Short restrained ones at first, then longer ones.
MILES: We need to talk.MILES: I am serious, Willow.MILES: Hello?MILES: Willow, we need to talk!
ZANE: Are you alright?ZANE: You can’t just disappear.ZANE: You’re not answering any calls now?ZANE: Please, Willow.
She read them all and replied to none.
It was not about punishment. It was self preservation. Every time she heard his voice in her head the same conflict coiled through her chest, anger and longing twisting together with restraint and ache. He had taken her choice away and somehow still made her care, and that was the worst part of it.
By the third day even the city seemed determined to remind her of him. Every taxi that passed the café where they had once waited out a storm drew her attention before she could stop herself. Reflections in the glass walls of passing buildings caught her eye because for an instant they resembled the shape of his shoulders or the familiar angle of his stride.
So she worked from home and kept her routine tight and deliberate. Reports were sent on schedule. Meetings were attended online. Questions were answered promptly. From the outside everything looked orderly and composed, but the quiet in the apartment never settled into peace. The silence pressed in around her thoughts and made them louder instead of softer.
Late Wednesday night her phone buzzed again. This time it was not a call but a voice message. Zane’s voice.
Her thumb hovered over the screen for several seconds before she pressed play. The hesitation felt like standing at the edge of something with no certainty about what waited below.
"Willow, I’m not calling to argue. You don’t have to come in. Just answer, please. Whatever you think this is about, it isn’t control. I just..."
He paused, and she heard the faint sound of his breath.
"I don’t trust him, Willow. Soren. He doesn’t ask questions he doesn’t already know the answers to. Please don’t make me regret not stopping you harder."
She set the phone down slowly and felt her pulse climb.
There it was again. The same quiet command wrapped in concern. The words stayed with her long after the recording ended, pressing into her thoughts like a bruise that could not be left alone.
He had taken her decisions and her voice and the story of her own life, and now he expected obedience as well. All while continuing the lie that they were a couple for Miles’s benefit. Perhaps he believed she would eventually give in. Perhaps he believed time would dull her anger and soften her resistance.
She stood near the window and looked out at the darkened city. Lights burned steadily across the skyline and traffic moved in thin shining lines along the wet streets below. The city felt alive and distant and entirely indifferent to whatever choices she made.
Something inside her settled into decision.
She picked up her phone again and opened her messages. Her thumb moved past Zane’s name without slowing until she reached Victor’s conversation.
His last text was short and certain.
VICTOR: Private jet leaves Thursday morning. 10:30 sharp.
She answered before hesitation could return.
WILLOW: I’ll be there.
Morning arrived in muted silver light filtered through low clouds and steady rain.
Willow woke to the vibration of her phone on the nightstand beside her bed. Another message from Zane appeared on the screen but she did not open it. She remained on her back with her eyes fixed on the ceiling while the weight of the coming day settled over her.
Today was Thursday and the flight to Los Angeles waited only hours ahead of her.
She lay still for several minutes watching the light shift gradually across the room and wondering why an act of defiance could feel so heavy. When she finally sat up the sheets slid down around her waist and cool air brushed against her skin. In the faint reflection of the window she saw a version of herself that looked unfamiliar, eyes tired but steady and expression set with quiet determination.
She told herself it was only a trip. One flight. A threat made real so it could not be dismissed.
Her pulse continued to move too fast for that explanation to feel convincing.
After the shower the apartment felt smaller than usual as she moved through it. She dried her hair carefully and chose her blouse with deliberate attention before packing the carry on bag she had prepared the night before. Each folded item sat precisely in place, a small exercise in control that steadied her breathing.
Control, even in fragments, was the only thing she trusted.
When she opened the closet her hand paused over the dress.
The charcoal gray silk absorbed the dim morning light instead of reflecting it, the surface smooth and deep like smoke held inside fabric. The bodice was structured and closely fitted, shaping her waist and ribs with quiet precision. The neckline curved into a sculpted sweetheart line that gave the upper half of the gown a composed elegance that felt deliberate rather than decorative.
Subtle embroidery traced upward from the waist in slender organic lines, darker threads woven into the charcoal silk in patterns that suggested climbing vines without drawing immediate attention. The detail revealed itself only when light struck at an angle or when the fabric shifted in motion.
Below the waist the gown opened into a wide flowing skirt that moved with unexpected softness. Layers of sheer charcoal material softened the fullness so the fabric drifted instead of falling heavily, the motion closer to mist than weight whenever she turned.
The overall effect was restrained but unmistakable. Not bright. Not decorative. Simply impossible to overlook once seen.
Victor had said the dress code should be dangerous.
This dress did not shout for attention. It waited for it.
A small smile touched her mouth.
"You asked for it," she said softly.
The knock came sooner than she expected. It was not tentative or polite but firm and unmistakable.
Her stomach tightened.
When she opened the door Zane stood in the hallway with rain still clinging to his dark brown hair and darkening the shoulders of his coat. The sharp line of his jaw was set with tension and his ocean blue eyes bored into her with an intensity that made her skin tighten in response. The look carried weight and familiarity at once, something she felt as clearly as heat.
He stepped inside before she could speak and reached behind her to close the door with a quiet click.
His gaze moved across the room and stopped on the suitcase near the door.
"Seriously Willow? You’re not seriously thinking of going with Victor are you?"
The disbelief in his voice carried anger beneath it, and beneath the anger she heard something that sounded unmistakably like fear.
Willow folded her arms and leaned lightly against the wall.
"You came all the way here to repeat your texts?"
"I came because you weren’t responding and I was worried." His voice tightened despite the control he tried to maintain. "Willow, he’s a player. He collects people. He’ll say all the right things and then he’ll turn them into leverage."
Her pulse jumped because she knew he was not entirely wrong, but she kept her expression steady.
"And you would know all about that. Player to player."
His jaw tightened visibly before he answered.
"That’s not fair. I have never played you, Willow."
The words struck with a sharpness he clearly did not intend. She forced down the response that rose immediately to her lips and let the silence stretch instead, measuring him with a cool steady look that revealed nothing of what she was thinking.
She let a faint edge of sarcasm enter her voice when she spoke again.
"Even if I am your girlfriend, that does not make you my guardian."
The last word carried just enough emphasis to make the meaning unmistakable.
He drew in a slow breath and for a moment she saw the pressure of words he could not allow himself to speak. His hand moved through his hair in a restless gesture that broke his usual stillness and made him look younger and less certain than she had ever seen him.
"I’m trying to protect you."
She shook her head slightly, her voice quieter but no less steady when she answered.
"No, Zane. You’re trying to control me again. There is a difference."
