2 October
I was just about to board a flight when my sisters husband sent a startling text: Come home now.
I had been handed a First Class boarding pass for Flight 815 to Firth Island, a secluded, prestigious retreat just off the Cornish coast. It was famed for its exclusive digital detox sanctuaries and a rigid policy of privacythe sort of spot where the well-heeled vanished from the headlines for a week. Mobile coverage was a rare commodity, and intentionally so.
Sitting in the Sapphire Suite at Heathrow, I watched the condensation trickle down the side of my champagne coupe. Beyond the vast windows, rain carved silvery streaks through the London drizzle, jet engines rumbling in the distance. But inside, everything glowed gold, velvet, and quiet.
I checked my phone.
Edward: Have you boarded yet? The chauffeurs updated on your arrival time. Look for the sign EMILY. Dont talk to the black cab drivers.
I smiled, tapping a reply. Not yet. Board in half an hour. Miss you already. Are you sure you cant join?
He replied immediately. Edward: You know I cant, darling. Mergers dragging out. I have to close this before we can finally put our feet up. Go on ahead. Unwind. Ill meet you in four days. Youve been on edge ever since your father died. You need this.
He was right. As ever, he was right.
Since DadRichard Huntington, once king of British shippingpassed away six months back, Id been drifting. Not in water, but in paperwork and expectation. The will had left a vast empirefreight, property, investmentsand I was meant to handle it all with zero training.
Enter Edward.
My husband of three years stepped away from his own tottering architecture startup to run the Huntington holdings in my name. Lawyers, bean-counters, hostile board members stopped looking at me like prey and started treating Edward as the man in charge. He orchestrated every detail of this breakprivate cottage, woodland rambles, spa days.
Mrs Sterling?
The lounge attendant glided over, smile as crisp as her shirt. Were opening pre-boarding for your flight. May I pour you another glass before you go?
No need, thank you, I said, standing and smoothing out my silk skirt.
I picked up my battered Mulberry holdallEdwards anniversary gift. As the automatic doors opened, a chill prickled up the back of my neck. Not anticipation or relief, but a strange, cold anxiety.
First time going so far alone. Edward always handled the check-in, the tipping, the itinerary. Without him, I felt adrift.
I walked the length of the corridor towards Gate 42. The air con had that airport chill. I wrapped my cashmere scarf tighter around myself.
The phone buzzed.
Assumed it would be Edwardperhaps a heart emoji or a bossy reminder to drink water.
But it wasnt Edward.
Sophie: WHERE ARE YOU?
I frowned. I hadnt spoken to my sister Sophie for a fortnight. Wed been rocky. Sophie, the artist, the rebel, the untidy Huntington, had never got on with Edward. She called him the Piranha in a Waistcoat. Edward shot back with The Moocher, suggesting Sophie only came round for inheritance scraps.
I replied: At the airport. Heading off on the trip Edward sorted. Whats up?
The three dots of her typing flickeredon, off, urgent, erratic.
Sophie: DO NOT GET ON THAT PLANE.
I stopped dead. Passengers streamed past me, a moving current.
Emily: Sophie, stop. Im shattered. Not today.
Sophie: EMILY, LISTEN TO ME. Im at your home. Here to drop off Dads old watch. Edward thinks Im the cleaner. I heard him.
Sophie: He never booked your return.
I stared. Couldnt make sense of it. Of course he booked a return, I told myself. Edwards the organiser.
Sophie: Its just one way, Em. Its a trap.
Final call for Flight 815 to Firth Island, the tannoy rang out. Passenger Emily Sterling, please proceed to the gate.
The agent was looking right at me, scanner poised, jet bridge gaping like a vault.
My phone flashed again.
Edward: Why does the tracker still show you in departures? Get on the plane, Emily. Youre cutting it fine.
The contrast was jarring. Sophies panic. Edwards clipped, controlling focus.
For perhaps the first time in three years, I hesitated.
The gate agents smile looked strained now. Madam? Doors close in two minutes.
I took a step forward. Habitfrom three years of marriagetold me to obey. Edward would be wild if I missed this. He loathed wasted money. That deep, disappointed sigh. The worst.
Just Sophie stirring things, I thought. She cant stand to see me happy.
I lifted the pass.
Then the phone vibrated, sending a jolt through my palm. Not a messagean image.
A blurry photograph, snapped through a crack in the study door. It showed Edward standing among my fathers books and trophies, satellite phone in one hand, whisky bottle in the other.
It was the caption that chilled me.
Sophie: HES NOT ALONE.
I enlarged the photo. In the windows reflection, barely visiblea man in the guest seat. Someone Id never met. Tattoo up his neck, briefcase at his side.
Sophie: Leave the airport. NOW. Dont call me. He could have spyware on your phone. Just go.
The agent tapped her watch. Last boarding, miss.
My chest seized up. The terminal air became thin, stifling.
I my voice stuck. I cleared my throat. I left my medication. In the car.
You cant reboard if the doors close, she warned.
I know, I said quietly. Im not getting on.
I turned.
The moment I did, fear hita white-hot jolt of instinct. I hurried, heels clacking on marble, quickening my pace, then running.
No baggage reclaim. No waiting where Edwards driver would be prowling with his sign. Straight to the taxi rank. Skipped all the smooth black Mercedes.
I jumped into a London cab stinking of old coffee and pine air freshener.
Where you off to? the driver said, eyeing my outfit in the mirror.
Anywhere. Just get on the M4. Head forjust go to Hampstead, I gasped.
Traffic grew chaotic as the taxi merged out of Heathrow, rain smacking the glass. My phone lit up.
Incoming Call: Edward
Ignored it.
Screen went black, then bright again.
Incoming Call: Edward
His smiling face, holding a glass of Bordeaux. So handsome. So safe, once.
Hes checking my location, I realised. He asked about the tracker.
I opened the shared Find My app we used for safety. Disabled location sharing.
The calls kept coming.
As the cab reached the M4 flyover, notifications piled up.
10 missed calls.
20 missed.
Msg: Emily, answer.
Msg: Where are you going?
Msg: Pilots holding the jet. Turn back.
Msg: YOU ARE MAKING A MISTAKE.
City lights smeared across the soaked windows. I felt sick, unhinged. Was Sophie wrong? Maybe Edward was just having a meeting. Did I just blow up my marriage over a fuzzy photo and Sophies mistrust?
But Dont speak to anyone else, hed said. If Id got in that car, on an island where I spoke no Cornish, on a nameless roadwhere would it have led?
The phone vibrated again.
99 missed calls.
Its not my panic, I realised. Its his.
Sophie met me at an all-night greasy spoon in Hampstead, far from Mayfair, where the Huntingtons usually lived our lives.
She looked like shed slept in her clothes, hair wild, eyes bloodshot, white mug of tea clutched between shaking hands.
When I slid into her booth, she didnt offer a hug. Just jerked her chin at the seat.
Switch your phone off, she said, voice hard.
I did, tucking it in my handbag. Sophie, what in Gods name is going on? I just ditched a ten-thousand-pound holiday. Edwards going to destroy me.
He already planned to, Sophie said. Not a hint of humour.
I flinched. Dont.
I went round tonight, Sophie spat, voice low. Wanted to give back Dads old watchthe vintage Omega Edward claimed was misplaced in the estate. It turned up in his gym bag last time I visited. I snuck it back and was leaving a note. Letting him know hes a thief.
Edwards not a thief, I shot backthough my voice faltered.
Hes far worse, she snapped. I used the side door, the key he thinks I lost. Heard voices in the study. He didnt know I was there.
Sophie fumbled with her phone, opening a recording app.
I didnt just get a photo, she murmured. I recorded the lot.
Crackly sound, phone muffled in a coat. Edwards voice, not warm and easy, but sharp, nasty.
Edward (recording): I dont care about the weather. The team in Truro is costing me fifty grand a day. She landsgrab her at customs. Use the VIP route, no cameras.
Muffled Voice: paperwork?
Edward: Its in her bag. I hid the Power of Attorney transfer in with the insurance forms. At the cottage: get her to sign. Tell her its ransom, tell her anything. Just get her signature.
Other: And then?
Long, dreadful pause.
Edward: Its an islandplenty of coastline. Just make sure her body isnt found until probates complete.
Sophie tapped stop.
The din of clattering plates washed away. I stared at my sister, shocked.
The Power of Attorney, I whispered. He asked me to sign amendments last week. I said Id read them first. He was furioussaid I didnt trust him.
He needs your signaturethats the only way he unlocks the inheritance. If you vanishor youre deadand he has that power
He gets everything, I finished.
I gazed at the thick diamond band on my left hand. It suddenly felt obscene.
Hes bankrupt, Em, Sophie said softly. I found out. His firm? Insolvent for a year. Hes been siphoning your accounts, paying off betting debts, crypto, pyramid schemesyou name it. The only way out is
I wiped away angry tears. I stood by him. Defended him to you.
Sophie gripped my hand. Doesnt matter now. Youre safe.
Am I? I muttered. He knows I never got on the plane; knows his plans sunk. What happens now, with a man like him in the corner?
Above our heads, the TV flashed a breaking alert.
POLICE INCIDENT ON M4EXPECT DELAYS
We need to go to the police, Sophie urged.
No, I said, steel hardening in my chest. I dried my eyes. Hell get ahead of itsay its a prank or something. Pretend its a murder mystery weekend. He talks his way out of any corner.
So what then?
I reached into my bag, fishing out my phone, powering it up. Notifications flooded in. But among themone new voicemail.
Play it, Sophie said.
I switched on loudspeaker.
Edwards voice: Emily! Answer! Where are you? Youre sabotaging me! Im at the airport. If youre playing games, I swear, youll regret it. Im coming for you.
He was hunting.
Hes looking for a victim, I said, rising. Lets give him a suspect.
Not the nearest police stationbut the station on Kensington High Street, where Dad donated to the neighbourhood watch, and where Detective George Miller, an old family friend, worked.
Miller was gruff, tired, not one for melodrama. But he listened.
We sat at a battered desk, everything reeking faintly of stale tea.
Hes trying to kill me, I said quietly.
Thats an accusation, Mrs Sterling, Miller said. Usually, this is money, not murder.
Its entirely money.
Sophie stepped in. Show him the video, Em.
Video? Miller looked up. Thought you had a voice recording.
Sarah got the sound, I said. But Edwardhes overconfident. He thinks he controls everything.
I opened my laptop (hoisted from my carry-on), logged into the cloud security account.
Edward installed cameras everywherefor protection. He thinks only he can access the feed.
I rapidly typed the admin password Id wrestled from IT last month.
Selected: STUDY 4:00PM.
Video played in HD clarity. Edward, manic, talking with Tattooed Man.
Then he turned, opening the study safethe one I thought held my pearls. Drawing out a pistol, checking it, tucking it away.
If Cornwalls off, said Edward, we do it messily. Ill say she got a car home and never arrived. Thenmake it look like a burglary gone wrong.
And your wife? asked the man.
Edward picked up our wedding photo. Smashed it face-down.
There is no wife, he snarled. Just a widow.
Miller straightened at once.
Thats conspiracy to murder, he said, grabbing the phone. I need Edward Sterlings location now.
Hes at Heathrow, I said. My voice was remarkably steady. Looking for me.
Well pick him up. Youre both in protection now.
No, I insisted.
Miller blinked. Sorry?
He has my passport, my ID. He thinks Im helpless without him. If he sees police, hell bolt, ditch the evidence, call his solicitor. You need him in the act.
What would you suggest?
I hovered over Edwards name on my phone.
Ill invite him to meet.
The plan was ridiculous, risky, and it was the way I wanted it.
Arrivals Hall, Terminal 4busy, open, impossible to control. Under my trench I wore a wire. Millers team scattered as a limo driver, two as tourists, one as a janitor.
Sophie waited in a surveillance van outside, clutching her seat.
My phone rang.
Answer, Miller muttered in my ear.
Edward? I said, voice small.
There you are! He sounded wild. Whereve you been? Ive torn the terminal apart.
I panicked. Im in Arrivals. Couldnt get on the flight. Please take me home, I said, playing the role he expectedvulnerable, lost.
Dont move. I see you.
I looked up.
Edward stood above me on the mezzanine, pristine in his bespoke suit, eyes feverish. He barrelled down the steps, pushing aside a family with suitcases.
He seized my arm, grip bruising.
You silly cow, he whispered. Any clue what this has cost me?
Youre hurting me, I saidloud, for the wire.
Ill do plenty worse. Out to the car. Sign the papers. We fix this mess.
What papers? I stalled. The ones about Power of Attorney?
He froze, took a step back. Saw the steel in my eyes. No fear. No tears.
How do you?
Because Sophies not half as daft as you believe.
Hand slipped to his waistband. Feeling for the weapon.
In the car, Emily, he hissed, gun concealed in his jacket. Now.
Police! Drop that weapon!
Shouts ricocheted. The fake limo driver levelled a Glock. Other tourists followed.
Misunderstanding! Edward screeched, panicked. Holding me in front as a human shield. Back off, or Ill shoot!
The airport briefly fell to chaospeople shouting, ducking behind benches.
Edward, look at me, I said, his gun pressed to my back.
Just shut up! he screamed.
Its finished. Theyve got the study video. The safe. Everything. Its all there.
He paled, eyes searching mine. What?
I saw you. I saw you for what you are.
His grip loosened. I stamped down on his foot with my heel, followed with an elbow to his ribs. He howled, dropping his guard.
Police slammed him to the ground, pinning him.
Edward Sterling, youre under arrest for conspiracy to murder, abduction, and fraud.
His Savile Row suit ripped as they dragged him up. Our eyes metlove burnt away to none but hate.
Youre never safe! he shouted, as they frogmarched him out. Its not just me!
But the doors closed, swallowing his howls.
Sophie ran through the barrier, crushed me in a desperate hug. And, finally, I sobbednot for Edward. For the girl who once thought love meant safety.
Three months on.
The airport buzzed, but I felt none of that old fear. No private loungejust a regular gate, ordinary people, a bagel and tea.
New haircut, jeans, mums silver ring replacing the diamond. No more display.
Marks trial was brutalhed pleaded madness, duress, anything. But with video, witness, and even his accomplice turning states evidence, he was staring at life. The Huntington estate is mid-audit, and Im gently learning to captain it myself.
Gate 12, boarding for Tokyo.
Sophie was back beside me, coffees in hand.
Managed to swing us both a double caffeine shot, she grinned. How are you feeling?
Im alright, I said.
We still have Dads jet, you know, she joked. Coulda skipped the queues.
Nope, I shook my head. Sold it. This morning.
Sophie laughed, a little stunned. You sold the Learjet?
No more baggage. I smiled. If Im travelling, I want to travel properly. Nowhere to hide. Own bags and all.
In my phone, Edwards old contact flickered: Edward
For months, the police insisted I keep evidencethe call barrage, the tracking. Now the case was over.
I pressed edit, delete.
Are you sure you want to erase this contact?
Yes.
Gonename, calls, the terrible countdown of what almost happened.
Sophie nudged me. Theyre calling group four.
I stood up. Backpack slung over my shoulder.
She grinned. Ready?
No husbands.
No secrets.
No traps, we agreed, together.
I handed over my boarding pass. The scanner chirped. I strode towards the jet bridge, no longer afraidonly a little excited.
As our plane left London behind, grey city sprawling below, I looked down. The world was vast, dazzling, open.
I missed one flight to save myself. Not missing another.
I turned to Sophie and grinned. Come on. Lets fly.Sophie pressed her forehead against mine as the engines roared. We did it, Em, she said, voice trembling between laughter and tears.
Outside, clouds swallowed the city, but I felt only clarity. All the false comforts stripped awayleft, at last, with the truth, with love that chose me over money or masks. The kind that drags you from the edge, unmasks the monsters, and walks beside you, however messy the journey gets.
Somewhere below, Edwards world unraveled, but ours was just beginning.
Sophie squeezed my hand. Where to first? she whispered.
Anywhere but home, I replied, and smiledfor the first time in years, genuinely myself.
We soared east, the horizon glowing with promise, leaving every shadow behind.
