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The stewardess blinks in confusion. “Sir? Is there a problem?”

“I need to handle something,” I grit out. “Tell the pilot to stop the plane.”

She hesitates, but a second later, her voice crackles over the intercom. The pilot responds. The engines cut. The plane slows.

I’m already moving, jacket in hand, heart hammering.

This is a mistake. I know it. But I can’t walk away, not after leaving her like that.

As the plane comes to a full stop, my mind’s running wild with thoughts of her, of the last few hours, of how I could have handled things better.

I was an asshole. She deserves better than this. She deserves more than I can give her.

As soon as the door opens, I’m rushing down the stairs and ordering my rental car to return.

An hour later, I’m standing in front of her house, the rain falling in sheets. I’m fucking soaked to the bone, but I don’t care. The guards let me through without question as soon as they hear my name, and I stand at the door, the gravity of the moment sinking in.

I could leave. I could turn around and walk away right now. But I know if I do, I’ll never forgive myself.

A woman from the cleaning staff opens the door as soon as I ring the bell, her eyes flicking over me with no recognition. “Hello. Can I help you?”

“I need to speak with Dinara.” I force myself to sound calm, controlled, like I’m not going insane. “Tell her it’s Cillian.”

Her expression shifts, the smallest twitch of her lips, and then she sighs.

“I’m sorry. But she left,” she explains in a thick Russian accent. “I can tell her you come.”

My heart drops into my stomach.

“She’s here,” I demand, my voice barely in control now. “She’s just hiding from me, right? She doesn’t want to see me?”

The woman shakes her head, her lips thin and tight. “No, sir. She left.”

When I glance at the driveway, I realize her car is gone.

She’s not here.

One of the guards standing to my left steps forward, a smug look in his eyes. “You heard her. She left. Now go.”

I whip around to face him, fury flashing through me like a bolt of lightning. My hand instinctively moves toward the grip of my gun.

“I don’t know who the fuck you think you’re talking to,” I growl, the words scraping out of me. “But I suggest you shut your mouth and stay out of my way.”

The woman’s eyes go wide and she starts to close the door in my face, but not before I see the flash of fear. The guard laughs, clearly thinking I’m bluffing, but I’m not. I take a step closer, the adrenaline pumping through my veins.

“Hvatit,” the other one snaps at him in Russian like he’s scolding him. “Ti nekhochesh problemy s bossom.”

I nod sharply, my temper dropping to a dangerous edge. “Yeah. Listen to your friend.”

The guard finally steps aside and I head back into my car, my hands gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity. I send her a text, just to check on her, but deep down, I know she won’t answer.

Even hours later, nothing.

It’s probably for the best. Maybe this is exactly what we both needed.

But I can’t shake the hollow feeling. The emptiness. The raw hole in my chest where her smiles used to be. Because no matter how many miles I put between us, no matter how many mistakes I make, she’ll always be the one.

And I’ll never stop wanting her.