Chapter 2 – The Disappearance
1432 Words
~ Isla ~
The news said the crash was fatal.
The photo they used showed Adrian and me at a charity gala–me in a silver dress, his hand on my back. He looked proud and I looked happy.
I watched that report on a motel TV two nights later and wondered if anyone could tell that the woman in the picture wasn’t dead, just gone.
Two days earlier, I had still been in Milan, standing in front of the mirror while planning every step of my escape. I couldn’t make mistakes. Timing, preparation, and control were the only things that mattered.
I had been thinking about leaving long before I found out I was pregnant. I knew Adrian’s security systems better than anyone. I had memorized the guards' shifts, the routes the drivers took, and which areas weren’t monitored by cameras. He believed order kept us safe, but for me, it was a map to freedom.
Luca was the only person I trusted. He used to work with me at the gallery before I met Adrian. When I told him what I needed, he didn’t ask questions.
He was the one who suggested the crash. “If he thinks you’re dead, he’ll stop looking,” he said over the phone. “It has to look real, Isla. No loose ends.”
“I know.”
We met outside the city at an old auto yard that smelled like oil and rust. Luca had found a car identical to mine, same color, same model, only with a small dent on the bumper. He switched the plates and removed the serial numbers.
“You’re sure?” he asked, leaning against the car.
“I don’t have another option.”
He studied my face for a moment, then nodded. “Once this happens, you can’t go back. Not for anything.”
“I understand.”
We drove to a narrow road outside Lake Como, the kind of road people avoided at night. He poured gasoline inside the duplicate car while I watched from a few steps away. The smell made my throat burn.
When everything was ready, we pushed the car forward until it rolled over the edge. The sound of metal breaking against rock echoed down the cliff. Then fire lit up the darkness.
Luca exhaled and looked at me. “They’ll find what’s left in the morning. It’ll be enough.”
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
He nodded. “Go now.”
I didn’t look back.
By dawn, I was on a train heading south. I wore a brown wig and an oversized coat. My new ID said “Elena Rossi.” The name didn’t feel real yet.
At every stop, I expected to see one of Adrian’s men. Every time someone stared too long, my stomach tightened. I’d lived under his control long enough to know how far his reach could go.
After three trains, two buses, and a ferry, I reached a small coastal town most maps barely showed. It was quiet and slow, the kind of place where people minded their own business.
There was a sharp, sea-like scent in the air, and the sea was visible in the distance. I rented a small room above a bakery. The owner, Signora Leone, was kind but didn’t pry. “You look tired, cara,” she said when I arrived. “Rest here.”
That night, I slept without cameras, guards, or locked doors. The mattress was thin, but it felt safe.
Days turned into weeks, I found work at a small art gallery near the pier part-time. It sold simple paintings, nothing like the galleries in Milan. The pay was small, but it was enough.
I covered my hair with a scarf, walked to work, and kept to myself. I told myself no one would find me here, that Adrian believed what he saw on the news.
But sometimes, when I caught my reflection in a shop window, I saw the woman I used to be, the one who smiled beside him.
My pregnancy advanced quietly. I hid it under loose clothes and said I was dizzy when I needed to rest. I read about prenatal care in secret and wrote in a small notebook each night.
Every entry ended the same way: You’re the reason I left.
One evening, as I locked up the gallery, a car backfired on the street. I dropped my keys and froze, my pulse racing. It took a moment to realize it wasn’t danger, it was just a sound.
Freedom didn’t feel calm. It felt like waiting for something that never came.
Still, I kept going. I learned where to buy the best bread, how to cook with the herbs that grew outside my window. I painted again, I started with small things—seashells, faces, things that made me remember who I was before.
Adrian’s name still appeared in business news sometimes. I saw headlines about his company expanding, new projects, new deals. Each time, I felt both relief and sadness.
Maybe he’d moved on. Or maybe I just wanted to believe he had.
At night, I sometimes woke suddenly, my heart pounding, his voice echoing in my head, calm but controlled.
And I realized something I didn’t want to admit.
I wasn’t afraid he’d find
me.
I was afraid I’d never stop feeling like I still belonged to him.
- Writer
