Chapter 3 - The Flight to Gary
The interior of Lucian Vane’s customized Mercedes Maybach was quiet enough to hear the soft purr of the rain against the tinted windows. Camille sat in the rich leather back seat, staring out at the blurred trees lining the highway heading northwest toward the Indiana border. Beside her, Lucian was effortlessly managing a quiet storm of operations through short, low-toned phone calls.
"Block the secondary runway," Lucian commanded into his encrypted device, his posture relaxed despite the speed at which they were traveling. "Do not engage the pilot. Let Ames think his flight is merely delayed by air traffic control. I want him sitting in that lounge, counting his minutes."
He ended the call and placed the phone on the central console. He turned his dark gaze toward Camille. She hadn't spoken since they left her house. She hadn't cried either. She sat with her posture straight, her jaw set, staring forward with a cold determination that seemed to intrigue him.
"You are surprisingly quiet for a woman whose life was upended four hours ago," Lucian noted, his tone carrying a rare note of genuine curiosity.
"I spent two years being soft because I thought that's what Trevor wanted," Camille replied, not turning her head. "I thought if I was understanding, if I was patient with his long trips and his sudden stress, we were building a future. I'm done being quiet."
"Patience is a virtue only when applied to worthy subjects," Lucian remarked. "With men like Trevor, patience is simply an invitation to be exploited."
"And what about men like you, Mr. Vane?" Camille finally turned to look at him. "What happens when someone is patient with you?"
A dark, amused flicker crossed Lucian’s face. "No one is patient with me, Miss Hunt. They are either obedient, terrified, or dead."
"A very efficient social circle," she said dryly.
"It eliminates misunderstandings," he replied smoothly. He reached over to a small built-in bar, poured two fingers of crystal-clear sparkling water into a glass, and handed it to her. "Drink. You look pale."
Camille took the glass, her fingers brushing against his. His skin was warm, his grip firm and completely steady. There was an overwhelming presence to him—an absolute, unshakeable stability that stood in stark contrast to Trevor's nervous, evasive energy. Trevor was a man who tried to look important; Lucian Vane was a man who didn't care if anyone thought he was important, because he already controlled the board.
"Why do you need me at the hangar?" Camille asked, setting the glass down. "You have armed men. You have the USB drive. You could simply walk in there and take him."
"Trevor is a coward, Miss Hunt," Lucian explained, leaning back against the leather headrest. "Cowards are unpredictable when cornered by violence. If my men storm that lounge, Trevor may destroy his secondary access codes, panic, or attempt something reckless that complicates the recovery of my funds. But if he sees you walk through that door..."
"He will think I came to forgive him," Camille realized, a sick smile touching her lips. "Or that I came to demand an explanation."
"He will think he still has control over you," Lucian nodded. "He will step out of his security bubble to talk you down, to keep you from causing a scene that might draw attention to his flight. And the moment he steps outside that door, he belongs to me."
"And what happens to him after that?"
Lucian looked at her, his dark eyes unblinking. "Is that a plea for mercy on his behalf?"
"No," Camille said, her voice dropping into a register so dark it surprised even herself. "It’s a request to make sure he doesn't get off lightly."
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Lucian stared at her for a long moment, then allowed a slow, genuine smile to spread across his features. It transformed his face, making him look dangerously handsome.
"Miss Hunt," Lucian murmured, leaning slightly closer. "I believe you and I are going to get along remarkably well."
