Nine Months of Deception: The CEO's Hidden Heir

Chapter 4

The yellow taxi screeched to a halt in front of the central station's glass doors.

The jolt sent me bouncing lightly against the worn leather seat, snapping me back to reality.

Through the window, dripping with rain, the immense transit building teemed with activity.

It was a human anthill, a labyrinth of thousands of people rushing to and fro. Exactly what I needed to disappear.

"That'll be twenty-two fifty, miss," the driver muttered, glancing at me in the rearview mirror with a bored expression.

My hands were shaking so badly I could barely unzip my purse. I pulled out a crumpled fifty-dollar bill and handed it to him, pushing it onto the plastic divider.

"Keep the change. Thank you," I said, my voice trembling.

Before the man could utter a word, I pushed open the door, grabbed my suitcase, and plunged into the chaos of New York.

The impact of the cold air and the symphony of urban noises—distant sirens, the roar of engines, and the incessant murmur of the crowd—hit me full force. I pulled up the hood of my dark coat and lowered my head, blending into the tide of travelers.

If there was one thing I had learned working alongside Sebastian, it was how power operated.

He wasn't going to come looking for me on foot in the rain; he would use his satellites, his hackers, and his contacts.

As I stepped through the automatic doors of the terminal, my gaze instinctively drifted to the ceiling. There they were.

Small black glass domes scattered every twenty meters: the security cameras.

A shiver ran down my spine. I knew Elias, the head of cybersecurity at Volkov Industries. He was a disturbing genius who could access the city's traffic cameras in a matter of minutes if Sebastian ordered him to. And I knew, with terrifying certainty, that at this very moment, Sebastian had already read my email.

I could imagine him tearing his office apart, bellowing orders, and unleashing his digital hounds. I didn't have much time left before my face appeared on the facial recognition monitors on the fiftieth floor.

I walked quickly, keeping my face downcast, using tourist groups and large families as human shields.

My heart pounded wildly, a painful, frantic drumming echoing in my ears. I reached the ticket area.

There were at least twenty windows, but I looked for the one with the longest line, figuring that would give me time to think about my next move without drawing attention.

I positioned myself at the end of the line, gripping the handle of my suitcase until my knuckles turned white.

“Breathe, Gianna. Just breathe,” I whispered to myself, trying to control the dizziness that threatened to knock me off my feet.

The stress, combined with the morning sickness of pregnancy, was taking its toll. My body felt heavy, exhausted, but the adrenaline kept me going.

As the line moved slowly, I glanced up at the gigantic route and schedule board, which glowed with yellow LED lights.

Boston. Chicago. Miami. Philadelphia.

I couldn’t go to any big city.

Sebastian had offices, contacts, and partners in every major city in the country. If I used my social security number to rent an apartment or if I walked past a high-resolution camera, I’d be finished. I needed a boring, cold, and remote place. A place where billionaires with god complexes would never set foot.

My eyes lingered on a small route, almost hidden at the bottom of the panel.

Blackwood, Maine. A bus ride of more than ten hours north, near the Canadian border. It was a coastal town I'd never heard of, famous probably only for its pine trees, its fog, and its harsh winters. It was perfect.

When it was finally my turn, I approached the window covered by bulletproof glass. The clerk, an older woman chewing gum with an expression of utter weariness, barely glanced at me.

"Next. Destination?" she asked, her voice nasal.

"A one-way ticket to Blackwood, Maine. For the next bus, please," I replied, trying to sound casual.

"The express northbound leaves from gate 42 in twenty minutes. That's one hundred and fifteen dollars. Card or cash?"

"Cash," I said quickly.

I took the bills from my pocket and slid them through the slot under the glass. No credit cards. No bank records that would light up a map in Sebastian's office pinpointing my exact location. The woman took the money, printed a ticket on thermal paper, and handed it back to me along with some coins.

"Gate 42. Have a good trip," she murmured, turning back to her screen.

I clutched the ticket as if it were a winning lottery slip and walked away from the brightly lit ticket counters. I made my way through the station’s underground corridors, looking for the north wing.

The air smelled of burnt coffee, dampness, and fast food. Under different circumstances, I would have bought something to stave off my hunger, but the mere scent of frying grease made my head spin. I swallowed hard, placing a protective hand over my belly as I reminded myself why I was doing this.

I arrived at the waiting area for Gate 42. There were fifteen minutes until boarding. I sat down on one of the hard plastic chairs, strategically positioning myself behind a huge concrete column that hid me from the main corridor but allowed me to see the entrance.

It was then that time seemed to stop.

In the distance, pushing their way through the crowd of tired travelers and noisy students, two men appeared. They weren't carrying backpacks or dragging suitcases.

They wore tailored black suits, transparent earpieces in their right ear, and walked with that rigid, predatory gait that screamed "private security" from miles away.

My breath caught in my throat. My blood ran cold.

They were Sebastian's men. I'd seen them a couple of times in the basement of the corporate building. Elias's tracking team had been faster than I'd anticipated. They'd probably intercepted the security cameras on my street or interrogated the taxi driver.

I shrank in my seat, making myself as small as possible. I turned up the collar of my coat, praying to every god that my black suitcase wouldn't attract attention.

The two men stopped about thirty meters from where I stood. One of them raised his wrist and spoke into his smartwatch, while the other scanned the crowd with hawk-like eyes, analyzing every face, every piece of clothing.

My heart pounded in my ribs so violently I was sure they could hear it. If they turned their heads even a few inches to the left. If they took twenty more steps... it would all be over.

They would drag me back to the fiftieth floor, throw me at Sebastian's feet, and he would lock me in a glass cage from which I could never escape.

"Passengers bound for Portland, Bangor, and Blackwood, Maine. Please proceed to gate 42," the robotic voice from the loudspeaker echoed throughout the terminal, startling me.

This was my moment. It was now or never.

Taking advantage of a large group of teenagers with enormous backpacks getting up to line up in front of the gate, I blended in. I kept my head down, using the bulk of the students to conceal my silhouette from the two gorillas in suits. I advanced inch by inch, my lungs burning with lack of air.

I reached the ticket inspector, handed over my ticket, and went out onto the covered platform where the gigantic silver bus was waiting.

I didn't breathe until I had stepped onto the first step of the vehicle.

I quickly climbed aboard and walked down the narrow aisle to the last row, the farthest, the darkest.

I plopped down in the window seat, tossing my suitcase onto the seat next to me.

A couple of minutes later, the diesel engine roared to life with a muffled rumble that made the floor vibrate beneath my feet. The pneumatic doors closed with a hiss, and the bus began to slowly reverse out of the terminal.

I finally dared to peek out the tinted window.

Just as the bus pulled up onto the exit ramp that connected to the highway, I saw a black SUV with tinted windows screech to a halt at the station's main entrance, blocking the taxis' path.

The passenger door flew open, and Marcus stepped out. Volkov's unmistakable and terrifying head of security was soaked from the rain, shouting orders into his phone, his face contorted with frustration as he watched the sea of ​​buses leave the station.

He was late. By a mere two damn minutes, but he was late.

I slumped back against the seat, closing my eyes as the tears I'd been holding back all morning finally began to silently stream down my cheeks. I cried from fear, I cried from relief, and I cried for the life I was leaving behind.

The vehicle merged onto the interstate, gaining speed and leaving behind the silhouette of Manhattan's skyscrapers, which slowly faded into the fog like a bad dream. I rested my head against the cold window and placed my hands on my stomach, caressing it with extreme gentleness.

"It's over. We're safe," I whispered into the darkness of the bus, my voice broken but filled with a conviction I didn't know I possessed. "I won't let him hurt you. I promise."

The escape had been a success. However, as I watched the rain-swept landscape roll past the window, I couldn't shake the image of Marcus at the station entrance. They had been too close. That meant only one thing: Sebastian wasn't going to give up. He had unleashed the hounds, and the hunt had only just begun.