Chapter 22 Escape Plan

Chapter 22 Escape Plan
After breakfast, Noah held Elodie’s coat open for her.

It was brown, thick, smelled faintly of hotel detergent and something warmer underneath—him. She slipped her arms into the sleeves, and he adjusted the collar without a word, fingers brushing her neck just enough to make her flinch.

He looked calm. Too calm until it felt off.

Elodie watched his reflection in the mirror by the door. The way he avoided her eyes, the way his jaw stayed tight even when he was doing something gentle.

When he crouched to help her with her shoes, she finally spoke.

“Is there anything wrong?”

Noah paused mid-motion. “What?”

“You look like you’re disappointed.” She swallowed. “About last night. Did I do something wrong? Or is it because you slept with an amateur?”

The word came out sharper than she meant.

Noah stood up slowly.

He was so tall that she had to tilt her head just to look at him, her back still against the wall, her body still sore, still fragile in a way she hated admitting.

“We’ll talk about sex later, lady,” he said flatly. “Right now, remember there’s a hideous syndicate chasing after you. That’s the only thing that matters.”

The reality hit harder than his tone.

Heat rushed to her face. Embarrassment. Shame. She felt stupid—like she’d reduced everything to her feelings while the world was literally hunting her.

“Oh,” she muttered. “Right.”

Noah didn’t comment. He simply took her sunglasses and slid them onto her face, adjusting them until they sat perfectly.

“Take the taxi with number fifty-seven,” he said. “That’s your driver today.”

Elodie frowned. “What about you?”

“I’ll stay here. Make sure you get inside safely.”

The words should’ve comforted her.

They didn’t.

Noah wasn’t just a man to her anymore. He was gravity. When he wasn’t beside her, everything felt unbalanced, unsafe, like she’d forgotten how to exist on her own.

“But—” she started.

“Go,” he said cold, but gently.

She hesitated, but then nodded. She took her steps out of their room, still mess and didn't touch by the services yet.

Outside, the hallway felt too long.

Every step sent a quiet reminder through her body—dull, aching, slow. She kept her posture straight anyway, refusing to limp, refusing to look weak in front of strangers.

Elodie still felt off without Noah accompany her. Noah was more than a man to her, he was her protector which when he was away, Elodie felt no save.
Her breath fogged instantly in the near-end-year cold air.

She spotted the taxi almost right away: number 57 painted in black on the side door. The driver didn’t speak. Just nodded when he saw her and unlocked the door.

Elodie climbed in without looking back.

The door closed, and the engine started.

And just like that, she was moving—away from the only person who made her feel safe, straight into a city that was already looking for her.

Meanwhile Noah didn't move before he make sure Elodie was safe.

He grabbed his coat from the concierge, ignored the polite questions, and took the staff elevator down. The kind that smelled like metal and detergent, the kind no one paid attention to. If O’Connell’s men were already sniffing around, this hotel was compromised the moment Elodie stepped inside it.

The escalator ride was quiet. Too quiet.

Soft music played from hidden speakers, something slow and elegant, completely out of place with the tension tightening in his chest. Guests passed him—laughing couples, businessmen on phones, a family arguing over breakfast plans.

Then he saw them at the front desk; O'Connell with his men.

O’Connell stood with one hand resting casually on the marble counter, dressed like a man who belonged in places like this—tailored coat, polished shoes, hair slicked back as if he were attending a gala instead of a manhunt. Two of his men stood behind him, scanning the lobby with bored, predatory eyes.

Noah’s steps didn’t falter.

He didn’t slow. Didn’t look twice. Didn’t react. He walked past them like they were strangers.

Outside, his black car waited across the street. He crossed without urgency, slid into the driver’s seat.

Inside, O’Connell didn’t wait for permission.

The moment the receptionist stuttered the names—Mr. and Mrs. East—his smile vanished.

“Which room.”

“Sir, I— I can’t disclose that information—”

The gun appeared so casually it almost looked like a magic trick.

“Try again.”

Security hesitated. Staff froze. No one was paid enough to die for hotel policy.

Two minutes later, O’Connell was in front of the room.

The room door didn’t survive the kick. It burst open against the wall, echoing through the empty suite.

The bed was still unmade. Clothes scattered across the floor.

The air smelled wrong—too intimate, too human.

And there, draped deliberately over the back of a chair, was Elodie’s dress. Torn. Ruined. Left in plain sight like a message.

O’Connell stood in the middle of the room, staring.

His hands started shaking.

Not with fear, but with rage.

He swept a lamp off the table. It shattered. Glass exploded across the carpet.

“You think this is a joke?” he shouted into the empty space. “You think you can touch what’s mine and walk away?”

Another crash. A chair hit the wall.

His voice broke—not weak, but unhinged.

“I’ll kill you, Bellion,” he snarled, breath uneven, eyes burning.
“How dare you play with me.”

The room didn’t answer. But somewhere across the street, Noah already knew, and he was already three steps ahead.

Noah stayed in the back seat, the door closed, the glass half-lowered. The engine idled beneath them, a low, patient growl. He hadn’t moved since pulling away from the curb.

Deux sat in the driver’s seat, hands steady on the wheel, eyes fixed on the hotel entrance through the windshield. He didn’t speak unless necessary. He never did.

O’Connell stormed out of the lobby, his round face flushed red, veins standing out along his neck. He shouted at his men without restraint, pointing, pacing, shoving one of them hard in the chest.

“Get in the cars!” O’Connell barked. “All of you! Find her—now!”

Chaos followed. Doors slammed. Engines roared to life. The men scattered with frantic urgency, peeling off from the curb in different directions like hounds released from a leash.

Noah watched in silence.

He already knew what O’Connell had done—checked the cameras, rewound the footage, caught Elodie’s figure slipping into a taxi. O’Connell was many things, but careless wasn’t one of them.

“They’ll tear the city apart, Consigliere,” Deux said quietly as the last of O’Connell’s men sped off. “Is that… acceptable?”

“It’ll be okay,” Noah replied.

His voice was even. Detached. Almost bored.

They continued to watch as the final car pulled away—then another—until one vehicle took a different route. A familiar one. The same direction Elodie’s taxi had gone.

Deux stiffened. His grip tightened on the steering wheel.

“Consigliere,” he said, lower now, sharper. “That one car… they might've know Miss Easton passed that way. Should we chase behind them?”

“No,” he said at last.

Deux frowned but said nothing.

Noah leaned back, eyes still fixed on that direction, unmoving as the city carried on around them.

“It would be okay.”