Chapter 89 Can't Outrun Power
One of the guards quickened his pace and positioned himself in front of me, blocking my path.
"Miss Reed, where are you going?" His face remained professionally blank, but his stance was unmistakable. He wasn't asking—he was intercepting.
I smiled, mustering every ounce of politeness I could find. "He only told you to protect me, not manage me, right?"
The guard shifted uncomfortably. "Miss Reed, please don't make this difficult for us."
My smile remained fixed, but my voice cooled. "Then call him. I'll speak to him myself, if you don't mind."
Hesitantly, he pulled out his phone and dialed Ethan. After a moment, he handed the phone to me.
"I'm going to take the subway now," I said the instant the call connected. "Tell your men to back off. Don't follow me, and don't make things difficult for them."
Ethan's low chuckle traveled through the line. "Olivia, you're getting bolder by the day."
I didn't respond, handing the phone back to the guard. "I've told him. Please step aside."
The guard looked troubled. "Miss Reed..."
From the phone, I could hear Ethan's cold, deep voice issuing commands: "Let her go. Follow her. Keep her safe."
The guards exchanged glances but finally stepped aside.
I descended into the subway station, the fluorescent lights harsh against the evening shadows. It was past eight, and the train cars were packed with commuters heading home. I squeezed myself between bodies, feeling strangely comforted by the anonymity of the crowd. The two security men positioned themselves at opposite ends of the car, watching me like hawks.
After five stops, I abruptly exited the train, only to board another heading in the opposite direction. A small, vengeful satisfaction warmed my chest as I glimpsed one guard scrambling to follow while the other spoke urgently into his earpiece. I transferred to the Blue Line heading toward Santa Monica Beach, a sense of control returning to me for the first time in days.
The evening air at the beach carried the scent of salt and fried food from the pier. I slipped off my shoes, letting my feet sink into the cool sand. In the distance, a group had gathered around street performers, their music floating through the air. I walked closer, drawn to their carefree energy.
One guard spoke into his communication device: "She's near the Santa Monica Pier." I pretended not to hear, sitting on the sand for a while before continuing my aimless walk. I had nowhere specific to go, no destination in mind, but I knew I didn't want to return to Ethan's.
Near the pier, a group of street performers was playing impromptu jazz, attracting tourists and locals alike. I stood at the edge of the crowd, swaying gently to the rhythm. A dancer extended his hand toward me in invitation. I hesitated, then joined in, moving my body to the music, spinning and swaying as if I could release all my frustration and anger into the night air.
That's when I felt it—a shift in the atmosphere, a prickle at the back of my neck. I turned mid-spin and saw him.
Ethan stood at the edge of the gathering, dressed in a deep gray custom suit. Despite the darkness, he wore sunglasses, his posture relaxed yet undeniably intimidating. He motioned for the two security men to step back as he approached.
My movements stilled. The music continued, but I couldn't dance anymore. My eyes burned with unshed tears as I walked toward him, away from the crowd.
We faced each other, the ocean breeze tousling my hair. I shivered involuntarily, not from cold but from the intensity of his gaze as he removed his sunglasses.
"Is the performance over?" His voice was low and steady, containing an irresistible force.
The tears I'd been holding back finally escaped, trailing down my cheeks. Ethan stepped closer, his arm encircling my waist.
"Enough of this nonsense. I'll apologize for today's events later. Will that suffice?" His tone softened slightly, but the underlying steel remained.
I leaned against him, feeling utterly defeated. The truth hit me with crushing clarity: I had nowhere to run. I'd fantasized about buying a train ticket or boarding a plane, boldly leaving LA for a couple of days—it was the weekend, after all, no classes until Monday.
But I couldn't. I knew deep down I couldn't escape. Even without the two security men shadowing my every move, Ethan's influence was vast. His connections extended everywhere.
Mexico had been proof enough. If he could have four fighter jets intercept a commercial plane overseas, what chance did I have in his own city? Ethan was like the towering mountains along California's coast—I could never scale them, never overcome them, not in a lifetime of trying.
My resistance was so insignificant it didn't even merit his real anger. That knowledge cut deeper than any harsh word could, and my tears flowed freely.
Ethan guided me toward the parking lot, his hand still at my waist. When he moved to lift me, I pushed against his chest.
"Let go. I can walk myself." My voice carried the last shreds of my dignity.
Surprise flickered across his face, but he released me. We walked side by side toward the Maybach where his driver waited, door already open. Ethan gestured for me to enter first, then followed, the door closing with a final, muffled thud that sealed us off from the outside world.
Inside, Ethan pulled me onto his lap, ignoring my resistance as he captured my mouth in a deep, punishing kiss. There was something else in the kiss too—a barely detectable vulnerability that confused me. I tried pushing him away, but eventually surrendered.
When he finally broke the kiss, his thumb wiped away the tears on my face. "Don't ever pull this shit again. No matter how angry you are, you don't run away from home."
I couldn't help the bitter laugh that escaped at his words. Home? Do I have a home? Fresh tears spilled down my cheeks, but I remained silent.
Ethan stared at my crying face, a flicker of discomfort crossing his features. He frowned. "Do you despise me that much? It was just a kiss. Is it really that unbearable?"