Chapter 3 - Turbulence on the Ground
Heathrow Airport was a chaotic blur of hurried travelers, flashing arrival boards, and damp London air by the time Flight 218 touched down.
Grant had tried to corner Elena as the passengers unbuckled and reached for their overhead luggage, but she had moved with practiced, desperate efficiency. She had secured the boys’ backpacks, hoisted Eli onto her hip while holding Owen tightly by the hand, and slipped into the thickest part of the economy-to-first-class bottleneck before Grant could intercept them.
He had sprinted after them through the jet bridge, only to lose sight of Elena’s dark coat near the baggage claim carousel. By the time he cleared customs with his expedited global entry pass, they had vanished into the sprawling labyrinth of the terminal.
"Sir, your car is waiting outside," his UK executive assistant, Marcus, said, holding up a phone as he met Grant near the sliding glass exit. "The board meeting at the London branch has been pushed back to four o'clock, but—"
"Cancel it," Grant interrupted, not breaking his stride as he scanned the sea of waiting faces holding placards.
Marcus blinked in sheer disbelief. "Cancel it? Mr. Hale, the British Telecom merger depends on—"
"I don't give a damn about British Telecom right now, Marcus," Grant snapped, his eyes darting toward the taxi rank. "Listen to me very carefully. I need you to run the passenger manifest for Flight 218. Cross-reference every Brooks—or anyone traveling with two dependent minors matching the ages of two and a half—and find out what hotel reservation was made under their name."
Marcus stared at him, bewildered. "Sir? Is this a corporate matter?"
"It's personal," Grant said grimly, pulling his wool overcoat tighter against the damp English chill. "Find them."
It took Marcus less than twenty minutes, thanks to the corporate travel agency Halewick Therapeutics kept on retainer for emergencies. Elena hadn't used a corporate card—she ran a boutique architectural restoration firm in Brooklyn that operated independently—but she had booked her flights through the company's preferred agency back when she and Grant were still married, leaving a dormant profile that automatically populated her passport details.
"The Mayfair Hotel," Marcus said over the phone as Grant slid into the back of his rented Bentley. "She checked into a suite under her maiden name, but the billing address traces back to a joint account she still maintains—though she hasn't touched the principal funds in years. She used her own personal savings for the booking."
"Keep digging," Grant ordered. "Find out why she's in London. Is it a vacation, or is she meeting someone?"
"Working on it, boss."
Grant hung up, rubbing his tired eyes. The city outside the rain-streaked window smeared into gray and neon streaks as the Bentley merged onto the M4 motorway. His mind raced back to the plane, to the way Elena’s eyes had widened in terror when she realized he wasn't going to let this go.
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She thought she could run. She thought three years of radio silence and a signed divorce decree were enough to erase the blood ties binding them together. She didn't know Grant Hale. He didn't build a multi-billion-dollar pharmaceutical empire by accepting defeat. When he saw an obstacle, he dismantled it. When he wanted something, he acquired it.
And right now, more than anything he had ever bought or built, he wanted his family back.
