Falling for My Runaway Bride

Chapter 28:

Ava’s POV

The silence in the cabin was complete, broken only by the occasional soft chime from the control panel and the low, pleasant hum of descent. We were fifteen minutes from Brussels, according to the pilot. Maybe ten.

My mother sat beside me, composed as always, looking far too elegant for someone who had just orchestrated her daughter’s social erasure. Her coat was still buttoned to the neck. Her hair hadn’t moved. She had readjusted her lipstick with a compact mirror once during the flight and then settled into reviewing emails on a tablet like we were on our way to a policy summit instead of quietly fleeing the country in the aftermath of a PR disaster.

“Brussels will be good for you,” she said without looking up. “Quieter. Stable. You’ll have time to reflect and recalibrate.”

I said nothing.

She continued, voice perfectly even. “You’ll stay with the Van Liers for the first few months. After that, we can consider a small apartment in the suburbs. Somewhere without press access. Somewhere manageable.”

Still nothing.

She paused, glancing at me briefly. “The sooner you begin to live a more private life, the sooner the narrative around you will fade.”

Right. A more private life. Like I was a faulty PR campaign that just needed better messaging.

“Maybe this will be good for me,” I said finally. “Distance. Time.”

The words tasted like ash.

She nodded approvingly. “You’re being mature.”

Mature. Not heartbroken. Not trapped. Not ripped out of a life I’d built with my own two hands. Not exiled from the first job, the first purpose, the first person who ever made me feel like I was allowed to be both brilliant and messy and still worth loving.

Just... mature.

“I know this isn’t what you imagined,” she added more softly. “But you’ll see. Emotions are unreliable allies, Ava. They’ve always caused you more harm than good.”

I nodded, almost absently. “You’re right.”

Because what else was I going to say?

That I missed him?

That every time I closed my eyes, I saw him pacing across his office floor, furious on my behalf? That I still remembered how his voice shook when he pulled me from that room and promised that Jeremy would never touch me again? That his arms felt like safety, and his mouth felt like something I could’ve spent years learning?

That even though he’d probably never feel the same, even though he was most likely engaged and gone and already moving on, I was still in love with him?

I wasn’t stupid. I knew what this was.

I had ruined his life and career and reputation in one sweep of a tabloid headline. I had been impulsive. Emotional. Selfish.

This—disappearing—was the only real apology I could offer.

The seatbelt sign chimed. We began our final descent.

My mother tucked her tablet into her handbag and gave me a small, clinical smile. “When we land, we’ll move quickly. There’s a private customs line prepared. The car is waiting on the tarmac. No photos, no greetings, no delays.”

I nodded. My palms felt like ice.

“And when we arrive, we’ll begin working through a plan,” she continued, adjusting her cuffs. “A new name. A new presence. And this time, we’ll focus on helping you control your emotional impulses. They’re a liability, Ava. You’ve seen that now.”

I bit the inside of my cheek and tasted blood.

Because she was right.

My feelings had gotten me here. My hope. My longing. My refusal to shut the door that I should’ve slammed shut the first time Liam Duarte looked at me like I was a puzzle he wanted to solve.

I’d let myself believe in something I was never meant to have.

And now, I was paying the price.

The wheels touched down with a gentle bump. The brakes hissed. The lights flicked back on.

We were here. And that was it.

I stood, followed her down the narrow steps of the jet, and felt the cold European air sting the corners of my eyes.

But I didn’t cry. I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

We reached the edge of the tarmac. A staff member waved us toward the private customs hall.

And then—I felt it. A shift in the air that made every hair on my arms lift at once. Something that pressed against my back like a magnet that wasn’t done pulling.

I stopped walking.

My mother turned, her brow tightening. “Ava?”

But I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

Because somewhere behind me—across the tarmac, or behind the glass, or maybe just in the air itself—I felt him.

And I knew he was here.