The Night She Decided to Run
Isabella stood by the window, staring at the city skyline that stretched endlessly before her. The lights flickered like stars trapped in a glass prison—just like she was.
The penthouse was silent, save for the faint hum of the air conditioning. It was luxurious, perfect, and suffocating.
She ran her fingers over the cold glass, her mind racing. Ethan was out. She had exactly one chance.
Her fingers trembled as she picked up her phone and texted her only hope:
"Be outside in ten minutes. I have to leave now."
A reply came almost instantly.
"Isabella, if he catches you…"
She exhaled sharply. "Just be there."
She had spent weeks planning this. Every detail was precise, every step calculated. She had memorized Ethan's schedule down to the minute, learned which security cameras covered which areas, and studied the building's exits.
But despite all her preparation, one thing terrified her—Ethan himself.
Because Ethan wasn't just possessive.
He was relentless.
She grabbed her small duffel bag from under the bed, where she had hidden it for weeks. She didn't need much. Just her essentials, her passport, some cash, and—
A creak.
She froze.
It was faint, but unmistakable.
Her heart slammed against her ribs as she turned toward the door.
Silence.
Was she imagining it?
The penthouse had state-of-the-art security, but Ethan was careful. He always had men watching.
She tightened her grip on the bag and took a step toward the door.
And then—
"Going somewhere, Isabella?"
Her blood turned to ice.
Ethan's voice was smooth, laced with quiet amusement, but there was something far more dangerous beneath it.
Slowly, she turned.
He was standing in the hallway, his hands in his pockets, watching her with an expression that sent a chill down her spine.
His eyes traveled to the bag in her hand, then back to her face.
Her mind raced. Lie. Think. Say something.
"I—I just needed some air," she stammered.
Ethan stepped forward, his presence filling the space like a stormcloud about to break.
"Air?" His lips quirked up at the corner. "You don't need a bag for that."
Her fingers tightened around the strap.
"You don't own me, Ethan."
Something flickered in his eyes. A dark amusement mixed with something sharper—something terrifying.
"No," he said quietly. "But you belong to me."
The finality in his voice sent her stomach plummeting.
She had one option.
Run.
Her muscles tensed for half a second before she bolted.
She didn't look back.
She didn't have to.
She knew he was right behind her.
---
Running Through the Night
The streets of the city blurred around her as she ran, her breath ragged, her heart slamming against her ribs.
She knew better than to take the main road—Ethan had people everywhere.
Instead, she cut through alleyways, ducked behind parked cars, and kept moving. She had to get to the train station. If she could board a train before Ethan found her, she had a chance.
But deep down, a sinking feeling clawed at her.
Ethan always found her.
She reached into her pocket, fumbling for her phone, her fingers slick with sweat.
She typed frantically. "Where are you? I'm almost there."
No response.
Her stomach twisted.
She turned a corner, nearly crashing into someone.
"Whoa—easy there," a deep voice said, steadying her.
She looked up into the face of a stranger—a man in his late twenties with dark eyes and a concerned expression.
"Are you okay?"
For a split second, she felt a spark of hope.
"Yes, I just—"
And then, she felt it.
A shift in the air.
A presence behind her.
And then, a hand.
A firm grip wrapped around her wrist.
Her breath caught in her throat.
A familiar voice—low, smooth, and unyielding.
"There you are, Isabella."
No.
No, no, no.
She turned slowly, her pulse roaring in her ears.
Ethan stood there, looking completely unbothered, as if he hadn't just chased her through half the city. His tailored black coat was pristine, his hair perfectly styled.
Like he had never even broken a sweat.
His lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Did you really think you could run from me?"
The man beside her stiffened, sensing the tension. "Hey, is everything okay?"
Ethan didn't even spare him a glance. His fingers tightened around Isabella's wrist.
"This is between us," he said, his voice dangerously calm.
Isabella tried to pull away. "Let go of me."
Ethan sighed, as if she was being difficult. As if she wasn't trying to escape a man who had all but claimed her as his possession.
"I was going to be patient with you," he murmured. "But I see you need a reminder of where you belong."
A sleek black car pulled up beside them. The door opened.
Isabella's heart pounded.
"No—"
Ethan moved too fast.
In one fluid motion, he yanked her forward, catching her against his chest as she struggled.
"Shh," he whispered against her ear. "I told you, sweetheart. You are mine."
The stranger stepped forward, but before he could intervene, Ethan's driver—the ever-silent Damien—blocked his path with a warning look.
Isabella's struggles were futile.
Ethan lifted her effortlessly, his grip like steel.
She kicked. She screamed.
But the city was too loud.
No one noticed.
No one stopped him.
The car door shut with a soft click.
Trapping her inside.
Her breath came in sharp, panicked bursts as Ethan settled beside her, his hand resting possessively on her thigh.
She slapped it away.
His lips quirked upward, as if amused by her defiance.
"You can fight all you want, Isabella," he said, his voice low, intimate. "But you know how this ends."
She turned her head away, her body trembling.
He was right.
She had never really escaped.
And she never would.
Because Ethan Lancaster didn't lose.
And he would never, ever let her go.