Heart Away

Serena Vale sat by the floor-to-ceiling window of her high rise apartment, a glass of untouched chamomile tea cooling in her hand. Detroit shimmered below her, clean lines, glass towers, the illusion of control. But Serena had learned long ago that power was rarely clean. It was quiet, calculated and always hiding something, just like her mother.

On the glass table beside her sat a closed laptop.

She hadn't opened it. Not yet.

The encrypted message had arrived hours ago from the investigator she'd hired in secret a week ago.

He'd taken the photos, the letter with Richard Calhoun's name, and dug where no one could.

The return address Miranda always used in her replies.

She'd written him back for years.

With that, and the photos Richard had sent of himself, some clearly taken in the same location, the investigator pieced it together.

Now, in that unopened email, was the result.

An address.

A location.

A truth Serena could no longer ignore.

She'd been pretending for days, letting Miranda parade her through gala preparations, nodding politely as Damien dropped not so subtle hints about the future they were meant to share. But behind every smile, every PR statement, Serena was elsewhere, hunting.

And now the answer was waiting in a single unopened email.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the laptop.

She finally clicked.

The message was simple. No salutation. No signature.

"Subject located. Current residence: Rue du Mont-Blanc 12, Geneva, Switzerland. Identity confirmed. Attached: images, timestamped footage, verified lease. No media trace. He's kept his head down but it's him."

Serena opened the folder and there he was.

Richard Calhoun. A little older than the last time she'd seen him in those photos from her mother's drawer. Grayer around the temples, a bit leaner, but unmistakable. The same stubborn eyes. The same jawline, her jawline.

He was stepping out of a modest apartment complex tucked near Lake Geneva. Dressed in a charcoal coat and alone.

She leaned back, heart pounding, not with panic, rather with purpose.

He was real. Still alive and still watching.

And he hadn't tried to reach her and that part burned.

She closed the laptop and set it aside, then stood and walked toward her closet. No hesitation. No theatrics. She packed light, passport, neutral clothes, black boots, her silver watch.

Before the gala, she would be gone.

Let Miranda have her cameras and chandeliers. Let Damien bask in spotlights he hadn't earned.

Serena had a legacy to reclaim.

And this time, she was doing it her way.

***************

The hum of early evening settled across Serena's apartment, subtle and tense, like a city holding its breath.

She moved quickly now, the apartment dim around her. Her suitcase was half-zipped on the edge of her bed, packed with neutral colors and a thick scarf for Geneva's colder air. Her passport, slim and dark green, sat beside it, waiting. She checked the apartment clock, still time before the car would arrive for the gala. Still time before the performance resumed.

A knock shattered the silence.

Sharp and measured and Serena froze.

She shoved the suitcase under her bed and tucked the passport into the drawer of her nightstand, slamming it shut just as the knock came again, this time softer, almost polite.

She padded across the hardwood floor in bare feet and opened the door slowly, just a crack.

A young man stood there in a slate-gray delivery uniform, holding a long garment bag draped over one arm. He barely looked old enough to shave.

"Delivery for Miss Vale," he said, eyes dropping to the digital pad in his other hand.

Serena opened the door a little wider, accepting the bag.

She didn't need to look to know it was from Miranda. Custom-sewn. Expensive and perfectly tailored for a performance she never agreed to.

She signed the pad with a sigh and gave the delivery boy a tight-lipped thank you before closing the door.

The dress bag hissed faintly as it brushed her thigh.

She tossed it onto the couch, already turning back toward the bedroom to return to her plans but not long after, another knock was heard.

This one firmer and sharper.

Serena's jaw clenched.

She strode back to the door and yanked it open.

Damien Rothschild, of course.

He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe like he owned it. A tailored pea-coat hugged his lean figure, and the smirk on his lips made her regret opening the door at all.

"You're early," she said flatly.

"And you're hard to reach."

"I've been busy."

"With what? Avoiding me?" He stepped forward uninvited, and she didn't stop him fast enough.

"Damien, I'm not really..."

"Don't worry," he said, surveying her apartment with a mock-humble tone. "I won't stay long. Just thought I'd check on my beautiful fiancée before the biggest night of her life."

Serena closed the door behind him, spine stiff.

"I'm not your fiancée."

"Semantics," he said, brushing his fingers across a bookshelf like a man appraising property. "The papers are drafted. The media will eat it up. All that's left is the bow and the kiss."

He stepped closer.

She sidestepped him quickly. "Don't go in there."

He paused, halfway toward her bedroom.

She tried to play it off. "Messy. You know how pre-gala chaos goes."

But his eyes had already narrowed, catching the tension in her tone.

Damien turned slowly, folding his arms. "You hiding something, Serena?"

"I'm hiding my patience."

His smile was too smooth. "You know, this alliance could really work. You and me, Vale and Rothschild. It's more than just old money. It's legacy evolved."

"Is that how you plan to sell it to the press?" she asked coldly.

"I plan to sell it to you," he said, stepping closer.

She backed up a step, but the couch caught her knees.

His hand brushed her waist.

"Don't," she warned.

He leaned in anyway, voice lowered. "Come on, Vale. Don't tell me you haven't thought about it. You and me. The world watching."

His lips brushed hers.

And for a moment, she didn't move.

Then she shoved him back hard.

"Enough."

Damien stumbled slightly but recovered with a grin that didn't reach his eyes.

"You'll regret pushing me away," he said.

"No," she said quietly. "I'll regret pretending I ever wanted this."

She walked to the door and opened it.

"Leave."

He lingered in the doorway, gaze sharp, calculating.

Then he stepped out.

"See you tonight, darling," he said, all venom masked in velvet.

Serena shut the door behind him and locked it.

Then she leaned against the wood, exhaling shakily.

That was too close.

She hurried to the bedroom and pulled the suitcase back into the light. She checked the contents again, then checked the drawer, the passport still there.

Tonight had to be perfect.

Not for the gala, rather for the escape.

******************

The penthouse conference room of the Ford Arts Pavilion had been converted into Miranda Vale's personal war room.

It smelled of eucalyptus candles and Chanel perfume. Whiteboards and digital renderings covered every inch of wall space, floral arrangements, lighting cues, stage backdrops, guest lists. A giant projection screen played a loop of past Ford galas with muted grandeur: glittering gowns, calculated smiles, and political handshakes preserved in cinematic elegance.

Miranda stood at the head of the table in a tailored cream dress, not a hair out of place. Her nails clicked against her phone screen as she scrolled through seating arrangements.

"Mr. Rothschild will expect to sit second row, not third. Move them up," she said, not looking up.

Across the table, her lead event planner, a woman named Calista, nodded quickly and typed into her tablet. "Understood. We've also updated the media rollout based on your notes. Vogue and Forbes will receive the embargoed press kits tonight. Time slot for the announcement is now scheduled for eight thirty PM."

"Push it to eight forty-five," Miranda replied coolly. "Give Serena time to be seen. Let the anticipation build."

Calista hesitated. "And... Serena knows what she's expected to say?"

Miranda's eyes lifted like twin blades. "She knows her future depends on it."

The room went quiet.

One of the assistants stepped in carrying a sleek garment rack. On it, a custom Elie Saab gown shimmered in ivory and silver, dramatic yet restrained, the kind of dress one didn't wear to simply attend. One wore it to conquer.

Miranda glanced at it briefly.

"Make sure my stylist arrives by five. I'll need help with the neckline."

"Of course."

"And the violinist?"

"Secured. She'll perform a piece by Ysaÿe during the first toast."

Miranda allowed herself a single, brief nod. "Good. The Ford legacy deserves nothing less."

She turned toward the windows, the city stretching out beneath her in glass and steel. For a moment, she simply stood there, arms crossed, eyes distant.

Calista cleared her throat. "Will Mr. Ford be present tonight?"

Miranda's gaze flicked toward her.

"William and I have a silent understanding. He'll be there. On his terms."

"And your daughter?" Calista asked carefully. "She hasn't posted anything about the engagement on social. No statements. No teases."

Miranda's lips tightened.

"She's a Vale. Not an influencer."

Calista took the hint and retreated.

Miranda lingered at the window for another beat, then turned back.

"We're not just planning a gala," she said softly. "We're shaping the next decade of Ford's image. Every camera, every word, every champagne flute matters."

Her voice grew sharper.

"There will be no improvisation. No scandal. No surprises."

She tapped her phone again, pulling up a contact labeled:

MR. ROTH.

She typed:

"Tonight is a culmination. Make sure your son understands that. Serena will fall in line. Leave the rest to me."

She hit send, then turned back to the table.

"Now," she said. "Let's go over the lighting cues again. I want every lens on Serena when the announcement drops."