Chapter 7 - The Midnight Drive
Mila vanished through the side exit into the pouring rain. Two minutes later, Axton stepped back into the lounge, shaking water from his umbrella.
"Weather is clearing over Nova Scotia," he said, checking his gold Rolex. "We have a thirty-minute departure window. Where are your bags?"
I stood by the window, watching the rain streak down the glass. "I sent them ahead with the flight crew."
"Good girl," he said, walking over and wrapping an arm around my waist. "Let's go, Clara. Our new life is waiting."
We walked out onto the tarmac beneath a massive black golf umbrella held by an attendant. The cold November wind whipped at the hem of my trench coat, smelling of burnt jet fuel and ozone. We climbed the airstair into the Gulfstream's luxurious, leather-lined cabin.
The door sealed behind us with a heavy, pressurized hiss.
Axton settled into one of the club chairs, unbuttoning his jacket, signaling the flight attendant. "Two glasses of the '96 Dom Pérignon, please. We're celebrating."
The flight attendant poured the champagne and disappeared into the forward galley, drawing the privacy curtain shut.
Axton raised his flute, his dark eyes glittering with triumphant arrogance. "To us, Clara. To the Callaway-Vance merger. To the beginning of an empire."
I picked up my glass, swirled the pale golden liquid, and looked directly into his eyes.
"To empires," I said calmly. "And the ashes they leave behind."
Axton chuckled, shaking his head. "Always so poetic. You've been so wonderfully composed today, darling. I have to admit, after your little performance at the hotel this morning, I was worried you were going to make a scene."
"A scene?" I asked, tilting my head. "Like the scene you made in Mila’s bed yesterday afternoon?"
Axton froze.
The flute of champagne remained suspended halfway between the table and his lips. The easy, charming smile vanished from his face, replaced by an expression of absolute, terrifying stillness.
For five seconds, the only sound was the muffled roar of the jet engines preparing for taxi.
"What did you just say?" he asked, his voice dropping into a register so low and dangerous it made the hair on my arms stand up.
"Her perfume was orange blossom and vanilla, wasn't it?" I asked, taking a slow, delicate sip of my champagne. "You always did have predictable taste, Axton. You bought her the same scent you bought me for our anniversary last year. Did you think changing the packaging would make it less obvious?"
Axton slowly set his glass down on the table. The movement was calculated, devoid of panic. He leaned back in his leather chair, crossing one leg over the other, studying me as if I were a balance sheet that had suddenly developed an accounting error.
"Mila spoke to you," he stated flatly.
"Mila cried to me," I corrected. "There's a difference. She gave me the Cayman accounts, Axton. She gave me the forged incorporation papers. And Rowan Hale has the security footage from Room 2204, Room 2206, the Chicago summit, and the lake house."
At the mention of Rowan Hale, the muscles in Axton's jaw twitched. A flash of genuine fury flared in his eyes.
"Rowan Hale," Axton breathed, a cold, mocking sneer curling his lip. "You really think that washed-up shipping heir gives a damn about you, Clara? He's using you to get to my board. You're an idiot who traded one leash for another."
"Perhaps," I said, leaning forward, resting my elbows on the table, matching his gaze with unblinking resolve. "But his leash doesn't come with a federal prison sentence for wire fraud, embezzlement, and corporate espionage. Yours does."
Axton stared at me for three long seconds. Then, suddenly, he laughed.
It was a sharp, barking sound devoid of all humor.
"Federal prison?" he mocked, unbuckling his seatbelt and standing up. He towered over me, planting both hands on the armrests of my chair, trapping me in place. His face was inches from mine, his breath warm against my cheek. "Do you know who sits on my board, Clara? Former federal prosecutors. Supreme Court nominees. State senators. Do you honestly believe a judge is going to take the word of a hysterical, cuckolded bride and a disgraced logistics rival over the CEO of Callaway Capital?"
"They won't have to take my word," I whispered.
Outside, the jet engines suddenly sputtered, coughed, and shut down.
The cabin lights flickered, switched to emergency amber, and went dark.
Axton straightened up instantly, turning toward the cockpit. "What the hell is going on?"
The heavy exterior cabin door unlocked from the outside with a loud, mechanical hiss. The pressurization released, and the door swung open to reveal the pouring rain.
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Standing at the top of the airstair, flanked by two officers from the Port Authority Police and a man in a dark trench coat holding a federal warrant, was Rowan Hale.
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