Missing 2

Detroit – Ford Foundation Gala, 8:43 PM

The blue carpet shimmered beneath the venue's glass atrium as guests streamed in, flashing smiles and posing for cameras, unaware of the undercurrent of unease that had begun to ripple behind the scenes.

Inside the main hall, the lights dimmed and the opening speech had long since passed. The audience buzzed softly with expectation. Waitstaff glided through tables. PR coordinators whispered into earpieces. Champagne flowed, music played.

But the seat next to Miranda Vale remained conspicuously empty.

Serena Vale was nowhere to be found.

From the back of the room, Alex's gaze remained fixed on that empty chair. His jaw tightened. His fingers tapped restlessly against the inside of his jacket.

He found Maya near the media booth, her expression tight, nerves obvious.

"Maya," he said, catching her arm.

She turned, startled. "Alex?"

"Where is she?"

"I… I don't know. She hasn't returned my messages since this morning," Maya said, voice lowered. "She left early, said she had to check something. She didn't say where."

Alex stared at her. "Is this normal?"

"No." Maya hesitated. "She's been different lately. Withdrawn. Secretive. She canceled two meetings this week. And… she's been avoiding Damien."

Alex's jaw clenched. He didn't wait for more.

He turned and walked briskly out of the ballroom, leaving behind a swirl of whispers and confusion.

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

At the VIP table, Damien's irritation had turned into embarrassment. He leaned toward Miranda Vale, voice cold.

"She should've been here by now."

Miranda's smile was forced, her eyes scanning the entrance every few seconds. "She must be running late. There was press outside. You know how it is."

But she knew it wasn't the press. Serena was making a move, one Miranda hadn't predicted.

Mr. Rothschild sat rigid with crossed arms. "This is not how alliances are built, Miranda."

Miranda turned to him with polished poise. "And it's not how they fall apart either. Let me handle this."

But the cracks in her voice were beginning to show.

A murmur spread from the stage. The emcee approached the microphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen, in place of our expected keynote, please welcome the chair of Detroit's Community Revitalization Program, Mrs. Sheila Ford Hamp."

There was polite applause as Sheila rose gracefully from her seat and ascended the platform. Her emerald green dress shined under the lights. Her composure was unshakeable.

"Good evening, Detroit," she began, her voice calm and full of warmth. "Tonight was meant to be about future alliances, future possibilities. And while we all wait for those to unfold, let's talk about what's happening here, right now."

She pivoted beautifully into a speech about the city's restoration, Ford's commitment to community infrastructure, educational investments, and the upcoming Detroit Lions outreach.

The crowd, distracted but grateful for something to hold onto, responded with growing enthusiasm.

Miranda watched from below, lips tight.

Damien sat stone faced.

But Alex was already gone.

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

Serena's Penthouse – 9:16 PM

The elevator ascended in silence, each floor blinking past like the countdown of a fuse.

Alex stood motionless inside, jaw tense, hands clenched at his sides. The muffled music playing overhead grated against his nerves.

Where are you, Serena?

The doors slid open to the penthouse level. He stepped out into the polished corridor, the light from the chandeliers catching in the dark material of his suit.

He knocked on her door, once, twice and got no response.

Another knock, louder this time. Still, no sound came from within.

He reached for his phone, hesitating before calling. No ringing, just straight to voicemail.

That's when he heard the soft shuffle of slippers behind him.

A middle aged woman, one of the residents or building staff, peeked out from the neighboring door, brow furrowed in mild curiosity.

"Are you looking for Miss Vale?" she asked gently.

Alex turned to her, his voice calm but edged. "Yes. Did you see her tonight?"

The woman nodded slowly. "She left a few hours ago. Had a small suitcase and a handbag. She looked… serious and focus."

"Did she say where she was going?"

She shook her head. "No. Just pressed the elevator button and didn't look back. I assumed she had a flight or something important."

Alex's chest tightened. "Thank you."

She hesitated. "She's a lovely girl. I hope she's okay."

Alex nodded faintly and turned back toward the elevator, the woman disappearing into her apartment again.

As the elevator doors closed in front of him, Alex's reflection stared back, sharp suit, composed expression, but in his eyes, only storm.

She's gone and she hadn't told him.

He pulled out his phone, opened his private call log, and dialed a number he hadn't used in a long time.

The screen read: William Ford – Private Line

It rang once before his father answered. "You're not at the gala."

"No," Alex said. "Serena's gone."

There was a pause. "Gone where?"

"I don't know," Alex replied. "But I'm going to find out."

Alex was fill with thoughts as the elevator descended.

The woman at Serena's floor had said she left earlier with a suitcase.

No destination. No warning.

Just gone.

He leaned against the cool metal of the elevator wall, hand in his pocket, fingers curling around his phone.

He pulled it out. A string of unread messages glared back at him, but one stood out, a text from an unknown number, sent the day before.

He hadn't opened it, not out of forgetfulness but out of instinct, out of fear.

But now, something compelled him.

He tapped it.

Tomorrow night, Vale-Rothschild. They'll make it official. Check the schedule. Then ask yourself where she'll be.

Alex stared at the screen, heart dropping.

Vale-Rothschild.

The name burned.

He hadn't wanted to believe it. He had brushed off Damien's smugness and had convinced himself Miranda wouldn't dare.

But she had.

And Serena… she'd known.

The elevator dinged at the lobby floor, but Alex didn't move right away.

The message blurred in his vision as his mind caught up with the truth.

She was never coming to the gala.

She was never going to let this happen.

And whatever came next… he needed to find her.

Before someone else did.

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

Detroit Metropolitan Airport – Earlier That Evening

The wind outside Detroit Metropolitan Airport carried the kind of cold that slipped under collars and behind eyes. It was the kind of night made for vanishing.

Earlier that evening, Serena Vale moved briskly through the terminal, her steps steady, her trench coat trailing like a shadow behind her. A pair of oversized sunglasses masked the tension in her face, though she wasn't worried about being recognized because she wasn't famous.

Not yet.

But she was a Vale and she was disappearing.

She reached a quiet bench near Gate 37A and sat down just long enough to check the email again. The one from her investigator. Subject: Confirmed Identity — Richard Calhoun.

She reread the address. Geneva. Rue du Mont-Blanc 12. An apartment complex tucked into the city's quieter side. Her fingers hovered over the screen, then closed the phone.

No turning back now.

A voice cut through the airport intercom:

"Now boarding: Flight 472 to Geneva, Switzerland. Final call for passengers holding boarding passes—Gate 37A."

Serena exhaled. Slow. Grounded.

She stood.

Rolled her suitcase behind her.

And without another glance, stepped into the jet bridge.

Her last glimpse of Detroit was through the rounded airplane window as the runway lights flickered past and the plane took off into the black sky.

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

Somewhere in Eastern Europe – A Private Lounge

The room was bathed in dim, golden light, the kind that flickered against polished marble floors and dark mahogany paneling. A vintage chandelier hummed low above, casting soft shadows across a velvet draped bar stocked with aged liquor and crystal decanters. The scent of cigars, gunmetal, and oiled leather lingered in the air.

Several armed men stood at quiet attention, clad in black tactical suits with weapons holstered and eyes sharp. They said nothing. They didn't have to.

In the center of the room, behind a wide desk of rich obsidian wood, sat a man shrouded in shadow. His face was hidden, the light deliberately falling just short of his features. His hands rested calmly on the armrests of a leather chair, gloved and still.

The door creaked open.

Another man stepped in, tall, clean shaven, face sharp with efficiency. He crossed the room in measured steps and stopped in front of the desk.

He didn't speak right away.

Then, without ceremony, he reached into his coat and pulled out a thin black device. He set it on the desk with a firm click, its screen glowing faintly.

A photo illuminated: Richard Calhoun.

The man spoke, voice cold and certain.

"We found him."

There was silence.

Then, from the shadows, the seated man's voice emerged, calm, low and commanding.

"Location?"

"Rue du Mont-Blanc 12. Geneva, Switzerland."

Another pause.

The man leaned forward, barely enough to be seen, and spoke again.

"Bring him to me."

He waited a breath, then added quietly...

"Alive."

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

Ford Motor Company Headquarters – Rooftop, Late Night

The rooftop was cold, wind sweeping over the glass and steel with a low, restless hum.

Alex stood near the edge, hands in the pockets of his coat, eyes on the skyline. The city stretched wide beneath him, restless, alive, indifferent.

It was their place. The one she used to call her peace.

But tonight, it was just him.

He stared at the spot where she once sat, legs tucked beneath her, telling him stories about things she'd never dared say to anyone else.

If only she had told him what was happening. The weight she was carrying. The choices forced upon her.

If only he had told her the truth.

About who he was.

About the legacy he carried like a curse.

Maybe, just maybe, they could have figured it out together.

But she was gone now.

And all he had was the silence she left behind.