Chapter 2: Busted by the Boss

I rubbed my eyes, and the little words vanished. My mind spun as imaginary comment bubbles faded, like reading a messy Twitter thread IRL. Was I actually seeing my TikTok FYP in real life? Maybe too much doomscrolling, not enough sleep.

A flash of vertigo hit me. Maybe it was too many Red Bulls, or my digital brain glitching out. The airport reality—burnt pretzels, wet carpet, and the smell of spilled coffee—snapped me back. Somewhere, a toddler shrieked. I hugged my suitcase like it was a life raft.

I tried to chill out and whipped out my phone to text Derek:

[Hey, remember when you swore you’d never fall for me, even if you got pushed off a rooftop? Yeah, same. PS: I’m not telling anyone about your weird chili pepper thing.]

[For real, I’m leaving—8am flight, 12pm male model. Try not to miss me too much.]

Sent. Delivered.

I hesitated, thumb hovering over "unsend," wishing for a time machine, but it was too late. The blue checkmarks mocked me. No more games.

Ten minutes later, Derek replied:

[Don’t. Let. Me. Catch. You.]

My heart kicked into overdrive. I pictured him going full Liam Neeson—jaw tight, running a hand through his hair, maybe breaking a stress ball. If my life had a comment section, it’d be pure chaos. Maybe I was just one viral meme away from a mental breakdown.

He probably muttered my name like a curse, and the poor intern down the hall pretended not to notice. The whole company was used to his moods by now—and I was always the cause.

But whatever, I was already halfway out the door.

The airport intercom crackled, and the bagel cart line got longer. I scrolled Instagram, ignoring the anxiety gnawing my gut. I’d made my choice.

Then—ping!

His assistant texted: [Miss Parker, big problem! When you sent that message, Mr. Ellis was screen-sharing. The whole company saw it. He’s out looking for you right now.]

I groaned and buried my face in my hoodie. Typical. Couldn’t even break up without going viral on Slack. I could already see the watercooler memes forming.

[It’s fine, I’m heading overseas soon,] I replied, unfazed, and tapped my phone to book a chair massage. Priorities, right?

I was just settling in, eyes closed, when the airport PA blared: “Due to weather, Flight 412 has been canceled.”

The words echoed across the terminal, bouncing off travel-weary parents and a couple arguing about passports. My heart dropped.

That sounded familiar…

Déjà vu prickled. Hadn’t I seen this in a Netflix binge or one of those 2 a.m. webcomics? I checked my ticket. Crap. That was my flight.

I frantically called my dad, hoping for a miracle. If anyone could hack the weather, it was him—he’d once made it rain at my middle school track meet just because I complained about the heat.

Two minutes later, Dad replied: Too far, can’t help. A shrugging cat GIF followed. Even supernatural parents had their limits.

That’s it. I’m doomed.

I slumped against my suitcase, secrets and lies pressing down. The universe finally called my bluff. After all these years finessing the system, fate decided to play me instead.

Comments started falling like snow:

[Plot twist! Our Derek is a succubus too, can control the weather.]

[If Parker hadn’t sent that message, she’d still have a slim chance. Now it’s game over. Second lead is sharpening his knives.]

[Who said this plot was boring? It’s spicy! Don’t you know angry sex is even hotter? If I were her, I’d just cling to the second lead’s thigh.]

[Move aside, you chaos-makers. Parker, trust me—go buy a bag of chips, eat them now. It won’t help, but at least they’re tasty.]

Thanks, you thunderstruck kind soul.

I grabbed Doritos from the vending machine, crunching away my stress. Lightning flashed outside, and I shivered. Not my day.

Outside, thunder and lightning crashed. The windows rattled, and people jumped at every boom. I hugged my suitcase tighter.

If the comments were right, I was seriously outmatched. Derek never played fair, and I was out of tricks.

If I can’t fight, I’ll hide.

I eyed the bathrooms—maybe I could camp out in a stall. Ten days, half a month—he’s got to lose interest eventually. I calculated the odds: fake beard, hermit in the Rockies, waitress at a 24-hour diner in Nebraska? Anything but facing Derek’s wrath.

But I underestimated him. He was always two steps ahead—probably already bribed the TSA and hacked the cameras. My escape was toast.

Just as I reached the exit, a wall of security guards closed in. Their walkie-talkies crackled: overtime pay or bust. I froze.

Right in the middle, sunglasses on, radiating BOSS energy: Derek.

He looked like he’d stepped off a GQ cover—black suit, five o’clock shadow, and an attitude that could scare granite. He tapped his phone, never breaking eye contact.

“Run, why’d you stop? Don’t want to miss your twelve o’clock male model, right?”

His tone was pure mockery, but there was a glint—part fury, part dark amusement. Security glanced between us, wondering if this was some rich people’s performance art.

Even frazzled, he radiated danger and sex appeal. My knees turned to water. I forced a grin: “Who’s running? My brother’s in labor and my grandma’s the doula. Family first, you know?”

The TSA agent at the door did a double-take. A mom snorted into her coffee. Sometimes, being ridiculous was the only way to survive.

[Comment: Bro, your brother gave birth to your grandma? Supporting girl, don’t be so extra.]

I tried to slip away, but the guards closed ranks. Suddenly, my feet left the ground.

With no warning, Derek hoisted me up like a sack of potatoes. My suitcase toppled, mascara rolling under a bench. Dignity? Never heard of her.

Derek tossed me over his shoulder. “No rush.”

His voice was maddeningly calm—like abducting women in broad daylight was just another Tuesday. I wanted to shriek, but only managed a squeak.

I squirmed. “Let go! This is a law-abiding country, what do you think you’re doing?!”

People stared, but nobody helped. Welcome to New York—mind your business, even when a CEO kidnaps his ex.

“What do you think?”

He smirked, tossed me into the car, and, lips curling, whispered words that made me want to evaporate: “Obviously—I’m going to do you.”

His cologne hit me first—sharp, expensive, and totally infuriating.