Page 30 of Her Irresistible Sheik (Al-Sintra Family #9)

Lilly stepped off the plane, her worn sneakers hitting the tarmac with a thud that echoed through her bones.

She looked around at the unfamiliar airport, blinking against the harsh light.

Her hair was frizzy from two back-to-back layovers, her shirt rumpled from hours in coach, and her eyes bloodshot with exhaustion.

But she didn’t care how she looked. Not anymore.

The life she’d once had was gone.

Her husband— her everything —was buried in a quiet cemetery thousands of miles away. Her job had evaporated when she’d failed to show up for too many shifts, and her landlord had already served the notice. She had no home. No family. No future.

Only one thing kept her upright.

She was going to destroy the man who had murdered her husband.

Getting through customs was easy enough.

She carried nothing but a backpack and the weight of her grief.

She didn’t even attempt to look friendly; she’d learned from traveling with her husband that border agents were suspicious of smiles.

Her grim, hollow-eyed expression earned her quick glances and quicker stamps.

As soon as she cleared the airport, Lilly hit the streets. She didn’t stop to rest. She didn’t check into a hotel. Her body ached from the journey, but she ignored it. Rest was for people with time. Time was not a luxury she had.

In her pocket was a weathered photograph—the only known image of “Clyde.” She’d memorized every detail.

The scar near his ear. The way his jaw twisted when he smirked.

The lazy posture, the eyes too alert for his otherwise relaxed demeanor.

She’d studied this face through tears, through rage, through long nights when sleep had eluded her.

Now, she shoved it in front of strangers. Anyone. Everyone.

Shopkeepers. Street vendors. Bus drivers.

Security guards. A group of teenagers lingering outside a convenience store.

She asked, again and again, in broken local dialect and simple English.

Sometimes she had to mime. Sometimes she got laughed at or ignored.

Sometimes she cried in the middle of a crowded street and forced herself to stop, grit her teeth, and try again.

Rejection didn’t stop her. Pity didn’t break her. Every hour that passed only sharpened her resolve.

On the second night, long after the sun had dipped below the horizon and the city lights flickered on like blinking stars, she found him.

A woman selling fruit under a tarp pointed toward a neighborhood near the industrial district.

A night janitor confirmed he’d seen a man matching Clyde’s description buying wine.

A pair of young men playing cards in a back alley nodded silently when she showed them the photo—then pointed to a warehouse with rusted metal siding and a bent, chain-link fence.

Twenty-four hours after landing, Lilly stood across the street from that warehouse. Her feet throbbed. Her skin was sunburned. Her lips were cracked. But her eyes were steady.

Clyde was in there. The man who had ended her world.

She didn’t storm the door. She wasn’t stupid. She knew what he was capable of. She’d read the reports. Had talked to the coroner. She’d seen what Clyde did to people when he got the upper hand. But that wouldn’t happen this time.

Not again.

So she waited. She watched. She learned the rhythms of the street, who came and went, which windows were lit at night and which ones stayed dark.

She tracked food deliveries and wine shipments.

She noted when Clyde appeared, how he limped now.

How he grimaced when walking. Good, she thought, clenching her fists.

Someone had already hurt him. Now it’s my turn.

The past several months had led to this. Every humiliating setback, every late notice, every moment spent talking to ghosts and sleeping with a gun beside her head had brought her to this broken sidewalk, staring at the building where he slept.

And she would not walk away without vengeance.