Missing

The Ford residence gleamed like a polished monument to power. Every chandelier had been tested twice, every flower arrangement curated to perfection. But tonight, the real focus wasn't on the home, it was on the family it housed.

Inside, Lisa Ford adjusted the cuff of her midnight-blue gown in the mirror, her reflection calm but alert. Her eyes shifted to Alex's silhouette in the hallway beyond the open door, lingering just out of reach.

"Alexander," she called softly.

He stepped in, adjusting the sleeves of his black tailored tuxedo. "Still fits," he muttered, tugging the lapel.

Lisa smiled faintly. "So does the legacy, whether you want it to or not."

He didn't respond right away. Instead, he turned to the window overlooking the private driveway, where Ford's finest luxury SUVs waited in a precision-parked line of glinting chrome and polished black steel. The family convoy was already humming to life.

"Is this really necessary?" he asked.

Lisa joined him at the window. "For men like your father, image isn't just necessary. It's oxygen."

"And for you?"

She looked at him, her expression unreadable. "For me? Tonight, it's armor."

He watched as William Clay Ford Jr. stepped into the lead car with the precision of a general. Bodyguards moved in a tight dance around him.

"He's expecting you," Lisa said.

Alex exhaled. "Then let him keep expecting."

Her gaze flicked to him, unreadable. "You won't ride with us?"

"No," he said, grabbing his coat. "Not as who I am. Not yet."

Lisa touched his arm gently before he turned. "Just be careful. The longer you hide, the harder it will be to tell the truth."

Alex gave a quiet nod and slipped away.

The rest of the Ford family entered their blacked-out SUV, the flagship Mach-E Prestige edition, flanked by security vehicles on both sides. The line of cars eased through the gates and out into the Detroit evening.

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

The Gala Venue – Downtown Detroit

At the heart of the city, the venue had been transformed into a glowing cathedral of progress and privilege. Where others rolled out red carpets, Ford unrolled a rich cobalt blue one, sleek, reflective, unmistakably branded. Banners of Ford's heritage fluttered from high columns, screens lit up with messages of innovation and community investment.

The press was already thick outside, cordoned off by velvet ropes and steel barricades. Journalists jostled for position, microphones raised like bayonets. The Ford family convoy's arrival silenced the crowd for a split second, then the storm broke.

"Mr. Ford, is tonight also a political announcement?"

"Eleanor! Over here! One smile... just one!"

"Mrs. Ford, any word on your future involvement with Ford Foundation global expansion?"

Security moved swiftly, guiding the family toward the arch of lights at the entrance. William gave a stiff nod to the press and Lisa offered a practiced smile.

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

Streets of Downtown Detroit

Away from the flashing bulbs and curated chaos of the Ford convoy, a sleek black Mustang Mach-E GT turned down a side street near the venue's rear entrance. No reporters. No security detail. No crowd.

The car eased to a quiet stop in the shadows of the loading bay, far from the blue-carpet glamour unfolding on the other side.

Alexander stepped out alone.

Dressed simply in black tie, no cufflinks bearing his name, no hint of privilege or power. Just a man walking into a world he knew too well and no longer trusted.

He showed a badge at the service entrance, one he had arranged quietly in advance, and slipped past staff who didn't look twice. No one stopped him. No one asked who he was.

But in the world that bore his name, Alexander Ford was still a ghost.

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

Inside, the venue glittered. Aerial drapes of silk hovered above the ballroom like floating wings, while curated lights shimmered across glass paneled floors. Waiters in sleek black moved with choreographed grace, offering champagne and chilled amuse bouches.

Screens displayed reels of Ford's philanthropic accomplishments: Detroit's school renovation projects, global sustainability outreach, technological partnerships.

Moments later, Sheila Ford arrived, graceful, poised, and luminous in an emerald green gown that shimmered under the ballroom lights. Her presence, though quieter than the media storm outside, held the kind of weight that turned heads and commanded respect.

She greeted Lisa first, with a kiss on each cheek and a warm squeeze of the hands.

"You look stunning, as always," Sheila said, her voice velvet over steel.

Lisa gave a genuine smile. "You're not so bad yourself."

Sheila swept her gazepast the glittering throng of guests, donors, executives, foreign dignitaries and landed on a solitary figure across the room.

Alexander.

He stood near the far column, half-shadowed, hands clasped in front of him. Watching and waiting.

Sheila's eyes softened.

She gave a subtle nod in his direction, nod of approval, recognition and gratitude.

Lisa caught it and followed her gaze, but said nothing.

Sheila excused herself moments later and crossed the ballroom, weaving through servers and murmuring guests. When she reached Alex, he turned at the sound of her heels.

"You came," Sheila said with a smile.

"Don't sound so surprised," Alex replied.

"I'm not," she said. "Just glad you didn't run again."

He let out a quiet breath, almost a scoff. "Who says I didn't?"

Sheila tilted her head slightly, studying him.

"You're still hiding," she said gently. "Even now."

"I'm here, aren't I?" Alex replied, gaze scanning the crowd.

"Physically," she murmured. "But your shadow's thicker than your presence."

Before he could reply, another stir rippled through the hall.

Damien Rothschild had arrived, flanked by two men in sharp suits, his cousins likely and a woman with signature Rothschild posture: spine straight, smile sharp, eyes unreadable. She stood beside Mr. Rothschild, Damien's father. Their presence commanded attention, oozing quiet entitlement.

Sheila glanced over. "Time to go smile at the honorables," she said with mild irony.

Alex gave a dry scoff. "Honor's a stretch."

Sheila offered a small, wry smile. "It usually is," she said, then disappeared into the crowd.

Mr. Rothschild spotted Miranda near the inner entrance, her silver gown shimmering like liquid metal under the lights. She greeted them with practiced grace.

"Miranda," Mr. Rothschild said, kissing her cheek. "You've outdone yourself."

"It's only the beginning," Miranda said smoothly. "Wait until the second act."

"Will there be fireworks?" one of Damien's cousins asked.

Miranda smiled. "In more ways than one."

Inside, music swelled, strings blended with modern jazz beats. Guests laughed, glasses clinked, media crews recorded sound bites, and the Ford Foundation Gala was officially underway.

Except... there was no Serena.

Not on the carpet. Not in the family SUV. Not anywhere.

Miranda checked her watch, subtle but sharp.

Alex scanned the crowd, his posture growing stiffer.

Damien, for once, looked mildly annoyed.

But none of them spoke the question aloud.

Not yet.

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

Dubai – Vollen Penthouse, Midnight

The city of Dubai burned quietly beneath the night with glass towers gleaming like cold fire. Inside the Vollen penthouse, Anastasia stood alone in her study, barefoot, silk robe trailing over marble. The light from the holo-screen flickered across her sharp features, casting her in a pale digital glow.

A map of Geneva hovered in the air.

One building blinked red.

Her eyes didn't leave it.

Behind her, the doors hissed open. Lucien Vollen stepped in, jacket slung casually over one shoulder. "You're still up."

"I had something to trace," Anastasia said, voice even.

He walked closer, eyes narrowing when he saw the screen. "Geneva? You've been circling that dot for hours."

She didn't look at him. "It's just a lead."

"A lead tied to who?" he asked.

Now she turned, her voice calm. "Serena Vale."

His expression was unreadable, but his voice was sharp. "Still chasing shadows?"

"I'm watching her. That's all," she said.

"And the man you've flagged at that address?"

She said nothing.

Lucien exhaled. "You tracked him through her, didn't you?"

Anastasia's lips twitched, not a smile. Something darker. "She left a trail."

He studied her. "Is he a threat?"

"Maybe," she said. "Maybe he's something else. Something related to the Vollen group years back."

Lucien took a slow step forward. "What aren't you telling me, Stasia?"

Her silence stretched like wire.

Then she turned back to the map.

"When the time comes," she said softly, "I'll handle it."

Lucien frowned. "You're not making this personal, are you?"

"No," she lied.

A soft chime pinged from her phone on the desk.

OUTBOUND FLIGHT: DETROIT TO GENEVA

Passenger: Serena Vale

Anastasia's eyes glinted with something close to triumph.

She reached out and minimized the screen.

"Looks like we won't be the only ones watching."

Lucien hesitated. "And what exactly are we watching for?"

Anastasia's voice was calm. "Loose ends."

She walked past him, her robe whispering against the marble. The doors slid closed behind her, leaving Lucien staring at the map and the blinking red light in Geneva.