The Promotion

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Sarah slammed the brakes so hard that my body lurched forward, the seatbelt cutting briefly into my shoulder as the car screeched to a stop outside the airport entrance.

For a second, I couldn't move.

The airport loomed in front of me—glass, steel, motion—people streaming in and out with purpose, suitcases rolling, voices overlapping. Life continuing as if mine hadn't just been ripped open.

My breaths came out shallow and uneven. My legs shook uncontrollably, adrenaline buzzing through my veins like static. I stared ahead, trying to convince my body to cooperate, to move, to do something.

"Louisa," Sarah said gently, reaching for my arm. "Hey. Look at me. Are you okay?"

I turned my head toward her. My mouth opened, but no words came out. Instead, I nodded. A weak, unconvincing nod.

I glanced down at my hands—passport, ticket, phone. Everything I needed. Everything that suddenly felt far too small for the magnitude of what I was about to do.

"What's the plan?" Sarah asked, glancing nervously at the rear-view mirror where cars were already piling up behind us.

"I don't have one," I admitted, my voice trembling despite my attempt to sound steady. "I just... I have to get inside. I have to find him. You park somewhere nearby, keep your phone on. When I call you, I'll either be crying because my heart's shattered... or crying because I've finally got it back."

Sarah let out a shaky laugh, eyes glassy. "You're insane. You know that, right?"

"Yeah," I whispered. "I know."

She leaned across the console and pulled me into a tight hug. "Go. Before you talk yourself out of it."

I nodded once more, shoved the door open, and stepped into the cold rush of airport air.

⸻

Inside, the world moved too fast.

People rushed past me in every direction—families calling out to each other, business travellers glued to their phones, couples laughing like nothing in the world could go wrong. The hum of voices, the echo of footsteps, the rolling of luggage all blurred into one overwhelming sound.

My heart pounded so violently it felt like it might break through my ribs.

Please still be here, I begged silently. Please don't let me be too late.

Security was mercifully quiet. I bounced on the balls of my feet as I waited, fingers twitching, breath shallow.

When I handed over my passport and ticket, the woman behind the desk frowned, peering down at the screen.

"Ma'am, could you step aside for a moment?"

My stomach dropped. "What? Why?"

"We just need to check something."

A security guard gestured for me to move. Frustration bubbled dangerously close to the surface, but I forced myself to comply. Causing a scene would only slow me down.

An airport official joined us moments later, scanning my details with an expression that made me feel like I'd done something wrong.

"You're aware your flight is scheduled for seven this evening?" he said. "You're five hours early. And you haven't checked in any luggage."

"I know," I blurted. "I'm not here for the flight. I'm here for someone else. Please—everything's valid, I just need to get into the departure lounge."

He exchanged a look with the other staff member, spoke briefly into his radio, then finally handed my documents back.

"Go through security. You're free to proceed."