---- Chapter 10 The world stopped. The soft music, the gentle hum of the engine, the feel of Celesta' s body pressed against his-it all vanished. The only sound was the news anchor's calm, devastating voice and the frantic, roaring static in his own head. Blake shoved Celesta away from him, a rough, convulsive movement that sent her tumbling against the opposite door. "Hey!" she yelped, more surprised than hurt. "What was that for?" He didn't hear her. He scrambled forward, lunging over the Partition, his face inches from the terrified driver's. "The airport!" he roared, his voice a raw, unrecognizable sound. "Get to the airport! Now!" The driver, startled by his boss's sudden violence, slammed on the brakes. The limousine screeched to a halt in the middle of traffic, horns blaring around them. He fumbled with the gearshift, forcing the car into a sharp, illegal U-turn. Blake fell back into his seat, his body trembling. His face was a ghastly, bloodless white. His hands shook so badly he could barely hold his phone. He stabbed at the screen, dialing Ellen ---- 's number. It went straight to voicemail. The cheerful, recorded voice he hadn't heard in months was a ghost's whisper. "Please, Ellen, pick up," he muttered, his voice cracking. He dialed again. And again. Voicemail. Voicemail. Voicemail. He threw the phone against the seat, a strangled sob of frustration and terror escaping his lips. He fumbled for it again, his fingers clumsy, and dialed his chief of staff. "Get me the CEO of the airline," he snarled into the phone, his voice ragged. "Now. | don't care what time it is. | need the passenger manifest for Flight 815. | need it five minutes ago." Every second that passed was an eternity of torture. The city lights streaked past, a meaningless blur. The only thing that was real was the cold, hard knot of dread tightening in his stomach. Celesta, rubbing her arm where she'd hit the door, scooted closer to him, her face a mask of annoyance. "Blake, darling, you're overreacting," she said, her voice laced with impatience. "It's just Ellen. If she's dead, she's dead. It's not like she was contributing anything to our lives. In fact, it's probably for the best. A clean break. Now we can finally..." Blake turned his head slowly and looked at her. The look in his eyes stopped her cold. They were no longer the ---- eyes of an adoring devotee. They were the eyes of a predator, bloodshot and filled with a terrifying, murderous rage. "Shut. Up," he hissed, each word a drop of venom. He leaned forward and hammered on the partition. "Stop the car. The limousine screeched to a halt again, this time on a dark, empty stretch of road by the river. "Get out," he said to Celesta, his voice dangerously quiet. "What?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly. "Get out of my car," he repeated, his voice rising to a roar. "Now!" He threw the door open. The cold night air rushed in. Two bodyguards from the follow car were instantly at the limousine's side. "Sir?" one of them asked, bewildered. "Escort Miss Norman home," Blake ordered, not taking his eyes off her. "In a taxi." Celesta stared at him, her mouth agape. Then her face crumpled, and she began to cry. "Blake, how can you do this to me? After everything..." "Get. Her. Out," Blake snarled at the bodyguards. ---- They complied, gently but firmly taking Celesta by the arms and leading her out of the car. Her sobs and protests were cut off as the heavy door slammed shut. Blake didn't watch her go. He slumped back against the leather seat, his body wracked with shivers, his mind consumed by a single, terrifying image: Ellen, trapped in a metal tube, falling from the sky into the cold, dark ocean. The car sped toward the airport, a black arrow racing toward a devastating truth. He burst into the airline's crisis management center like a storm. The room was a chaotic hub of ringing phones, frantic conversations, and the strained, tearful faces of family members. Blake shoved his way through the crowd, his immense wealth and power parting the sea of ordinary grief. He found the man in charge, a vice president he recognized from a charity dinner. He grabbed the man by the lapels of his expensive suit. "The manifest," Blake rasped, his eyes wild. "Show me the manifest for 815." The vice president, his face pale and grim, didn't argue. He led Blake to a private office and handed him a printed list. Blake's hands shook as he took it. He scanned the names, his heart hammering against his ribs. His eyes raced down the list, praying, bargaining with a God he didn't believe in. ---- And then he saw it. Strong, Ellen. The name was a final, irrefutable confirmation. A death sentence delivered in cold, black ink. The paper slipped from his fingers. The strength drained from his legs, and he collapsed into a chair, his body slumping as if his bones had turned to liquid. It was true. She was gone. And he had sent her there. He had stood by while Celesta handed her a death warrant disguised as a plane ticket. He had watched her walk out of his house for the last time, and he had felt nothing but relief. The weight of it, the full, crushing, irreversible reality of his actions, slammed into him. He had killed her. As surely as if he had pushed the plane from the sky himself. A sound, a raw, animal cry of a pain too immense to bear, was ripped from his throat. He buried his face in his hands, and for the first time since he was a small boy, Blake Wallace wept. He wept for her, for the love he had destroyed, and for the monster he had become.