Chapter 3 - The Billionaire’s Manhunt
By 8:00 AM on Christmas morning, the glittering facade of Marcus Vale’s empire had fractured completely. The guests were gone, the champagne had soured, and the Lake Shore Drive mansion had transformed into a fortress of frantic desperation.
Marcus stood in his private study, his tuxedo discarded, wearing a rumpled cashmere sweater. His eyes were bloodshot, dark circles carving deep hollows beneath them. He had not slept a single minute.
His private security chief, David Vance, stood rigidly in front of the desk, holding a clipboard with flight manifests and security logs.
“We checked the private hangar at Midway and O’Hare, Mr. Vale,” David reported grimly, keeping his gaze fixed on the wall. “Mrs. Vale’s name isn't on any private registries. But airport traffic cameras caught her license plate entering the terminal drop-off zone at O’Hare around 10:30 PM last night. She boarded a commercial red-eye flight to San Diego.”
Marcus slammed his fist onto the mahogany desk, making the heavy crystal decanters jump. “Find out where she’s staying! Charter a G650 immediately. I want a flight plan filed to San Diego within the hour.”
“Sir,” David hesitated, swallowing hard. “There’s... there’s something else you need to see. We pulled the household security footage from the rear mudroom exit to verify the time of her departure.”
David tapped a button on his tablet, sliding it across the desk.
Marcus looked down at the screen. The grainy night-vision footage showed Elena pushing a heavy trolley laden with three large suitcases. She paused near the door, turning back to look at the towering silhouette of the mansion. Even through the poor resolution, Marcus could see the profound, crushing sorrow etched into her posture. Then, she pulled her wool coat tighter around herself and stepped out into the blinding snow.
As Marcus watched the replay, a crushing weight settled over his chest. For six years, he had convinced himself that providing an unlimited credit line, a staff of servants, and a life of extreme luxury was the ultimate expression of love. He had convinced himself that Elena was happy because she had no financial worries, no stress, no burdens.
He had never once asked her what she actually wanted.
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He had never noticed the quiet dinners eaten alone, the anniversaries spent reading quarterly reports, or the birthdays acknowledged only with a hurried floral arrangement delivered by his secretary.
“Get the jet ready,” Marcus commanded, his voice dropping into a harsh, dangerous whisper. “If she thinks she can just walk out of my life—out of our child's life—she is sorely mistaken. We are going to California.”
