Page 13 of Ivory Legacy

My phone buzzed, slicing through the silence of the terminal and my spiraling thoughts. Mom. The display showed her name, and I pressed the device to my ear, fighting to keep my voice level.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Jade, darling, did I wake you?” Her voice was laced with concern, the maternal instinct kicking in even across the miles and late-night static. “Had you gone to sleep already?”

“No, we... we just spoke,” I told her.

“I know, I know. But I could sense that you were upset and…I don’t know,” she chuckled softly, but there was something more—a knowing undertone that suggested intuition rather than forgetfulness. “I just had this feeling you needed me.”

I fought back a surge of emotion, a mix of frustration and gratitude. “Mom, I’m okay.”

“Jade, you’ve never been a good liar, not even as a little girl,” she chided gently. “Now tell me what’s wrong. And don’t say ‘nothing’, because we both know it’s not true.”

I took a breath, the cold air of the station doing nothing to soothe the tightness in my chest. The truth was a luxury I couldn’t afford, not even with her. “It’s just... money stuff. I’m fine, really.”

There was a pause, and I could practically hear her mind turning over, piecing together the unsaid words that lingered between us.

“Sweetheart, if money is the issue, let me help. I can wire you some cash first thing tomorrow—no questions asked. You know I’ll always take care of you.”

Her offer was an unexpected lifeline, a moment of reprieve in the relentless tide that was threatening to pull me under. “Mom, I can’t ask you to do that...”

“Jade Bentley, you didn’t ask—I offered. And I insist. Whether you’re twenty-five or fifty, you’ll always be my little girl. Let me do this for you.”

“Okay,” I conceded, the word feeling like a surrender and a salvation all at once. “Thank you, Mom. Really, thank you.”

I ended the call with a soft click, a faint smile touching my lips – it didn’t reach my eyes, but it was there nonetheless. A glimmer of hope kindled within me, flickering weakly against the darkness of my thoughts. I could almost feel the weight of the smartphone in my hand, its sleek surface now slick with the sweat from my trembling fingers.

I clutched the phone tightly, knuckles whitening, as if by sheer grip alone I could hold onto the sense of safety my mom’s promise provided. The relief was tangible, a fleeting respite from the fear that Dante Moretti’s reach could extend even to the shadows where I sought refuge.

With a shaky exhale that turned to mist in the wintry air of Grand Central Station, I shoved the phone into the depths of mybag. It was done. Help was on the way. Now, I just had to survive long enough for it to reach me.

I sucked in a lungful of the station’s charged air, the tang of metal and exhaust battling the underlying scent of stale coffee from the all-night kiosk. My chest expanded against the constraints of my coat, and for a moment, I pretended that with this breath, I could inhale courage and exhale fear.

“Time to move, Bentley,” I muttered to myself, the words barely audible above the dull roar of the cavernous terminal.

My hands moved with purpose, rifling through my bag. I pulled out the essentials—my wallet, a small notebook crammed with research notes, and the burner phone I’d bought on impulse. Each item was a piece of the puzzle that was my escape, a symbol of the life I was desperate to protect.

At the till, I shoved the items into a nondescript backpack that screamed ‘tourist’ rather than ‘fleeing for her life’. My fingers were nimble, betraying none of the chaos that churned inside me. They flipped through the wad of cash, counting silently before sliding it over the counter for yet another ticket to Nowhere Fast.

“Keep it together,” I whispered to the reflection in the glass pane separating me from the clerk—a reflection that seemed so far removed from the Jade Bentley who once peered into microscopes, searching for answers to questions most people hadn’t thought to ask.

“Next, please!” the clerk called out, snapping me back from my reverie. I shouldered the backpack, feeling the comfortingweight against my back, and stepped away from the till, blending into the sparse crowd of night owls and early risers.

I darted toward the ticket counter, my heart drumming a rapid beat in my chest. “One ticket to Harbor’s End,” I demanded, breathless, my voice a notch too loud in the quiet of the night.

The clerk raised an eyebrow but typed away, unfazed by the urgency lacing my tone. “That’ll be fifty dollars,” he said flatly.

“Here.” I shoved a crumpled bill across the counter, not bothering with pleasantries. The transaction was swift, and soon enough, a flimsy piece of hope lay in my palm—a one-way ticket out of this city that had become a lavish prison.

Clutching the ticket like a talisman against the chaos Dante Moretti’s world had thrust upon me, I spun on my heel and strode towards the elevator. The polished metal doors slid open silently, swallowing me whole as I descended into the bowels of Grand Central Station, where the buses promised anonymity and distance.

My mind reeled with calculations and contingencies, each step a deliberate march away from a life intertwined with a criminal empire that knew no boundaries. The pulsating fear of being followed, of being dragged back to a love poisoned by danger, receded with every determined footfall.

“Harbor’s End?” the bus agent asked, peering at me through sleepy eyes.

“Yep, that’s me,” I replied, feeling the ghost of a smile tugging at my lips. I handed over the ticket, and he nodded, tearing off a portion and handing it back without another word.

“Bus leaves in ten minutes, Gate 24B,” he muttered, already losing interest as he looked past me to the next customer in line.

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