They reached the customs control zone. Usually, Lydia Beaumont breezed through the VIP lane. Today, she was marched past the queue, through a heavy set of double doors, and out into the public arrivals hall. The noise hit her first, the roar of hundreds of people, drivers holding placards, relatives shouting greetings, the chaotic hum of a major international hub.
The sliding glass doors hissed open and the cold draft of the English evening bit into her skin. "Victor." Lydia cried out, scanning the sea of faces. Her voice cracked, desperate and shrill. "Victor, I am here." And then the crowd parted. Standing near the barrier, separated from the common travelers by a velvet rope, was a small cluster of men in dark suits.
In the center stood Victor Beaumont. Lydia's heart leaped. He had come. He looked impeccable from a distance. His navy suit, his silver hair, he was her savior. She lunged forward, dragging the female constable a step. "Victor, tell them. Tell them who I am." She screamed, the relief flooding her veins. But as she got closer, the relief turned to ice.
Victor Beaumont was not smiling. He was not rushing toward the police line to demand her release. He was standing rigid, his face the color of old ash. He was sweating profusely despite the chill. And the men surrounding him were not his usual entourage of sycophants. They were grim-faced men holding briefcases that bore the emblem of the British High Court Enforcement. "Mrs.
Beaumont, stand still." Sergeant Davies ordered, tightening his grip on her arm. Then the automatic doors behind them hissed open again. Julian Cross stepped out. The transformation was absolute. On the plane, he had been a passenger under siege. Now, walking into the arrivals hall, he was a titan.
He wore his black trench coat like a cape. He carried his briefcase not as luggage, but as a weapon. He did not look at the crowd. He did not look at the flashing cameras of the paparazzi, who had mysteriously been tipped off to the exact arrival time. He walked straight toward the police line, stopping just a few feet from where Lydia was being held.
He looked at Victor Beaumont. The silence that fell over the immediate area was heavy, suffocating. "Victor." Julian said. His voice was calm, projecting effortlessly over the din of the terminal. "You look tired." Victor Beaumont swallowed hard. His eyes darted from his wife in handcuffs to the man who had hunted him across the Atlantic. "Mr.
Cross." Victor stammered. His voice was weak, stripped of its usual CEO bluster. "Mr. Cross, please. I came personally. I took the company jet as soon as I got the alert. We can fix this. Whatever my wife did, whatever she said, it is not a reflection of the company." Lydia froze. She stared at her husband, blinking through her tears.
"Victor, what are you saying? Get these things off me." Victor did not look at her. He refused to meet her eyes. He kept his gaze fixed on Julian, pleading. "She is not well, Mr. Cross." Victor continued, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "She has a drinking problem. I have been trying to get her help for years.
I can distance the company from her. I can issue a public apology. I can have her admitted to a facility tonight. Just please do not kill the deal. Do not freeze the accounts. We need the liquidity by Monday morning or we go under." The crowd gasped. Phones were raised high, recording every second of the betrayal. "You coward.
