THE SECRETS WE BURIED IN WHITE LACE

I threw the car into drive before the doors were even fully closed.

“Daddy, where are we going?” Lucas asked from the backseat, sensing the panic in my movements.

“We are going to get your mother,” I promised him, my grip white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

The drive back into Manhattan was a blur of blaring horns and swerving tires.

Every red light felt like an eternity.

My mind raced through terrifying scenarios.

My mother’s security team wasn’t just a group of bodyguards; they were former private military contractors. They were paid to make problems disappear quietly.

And right now, my wife was the biggest problem my mother had ever faced.

I pulled up to the curb outside Grand Central Terminal, ignoring the furious shouting of a traffic cop.

I turned around to look at the kids.

“Lucas. Mia. I need you to stay exactly where you are. Do not open these doors for anyone except me or Mommy. Do you understand?”

Lucas nodded solemnly, pulling his little sister close.

I left the engine running and sprinted into the massive, echoing hall of the terminal.

The afternoon commuter rush was in full swing.

Thousands of people blurred past me, a sea of grey coats and briefcases.

I shoved past them, ignoring the angry shouts, my eyes scanning the massive golden clock in the center of the room.

Track 14.

I ran down the ramp, my dress shoes slipping on the polished marble floors.

When I reached the entrance to Track 14, my heart dropped.

The platform was nearly empty.

The train was boarding, the final whistle blowing loud and sharp.

I scanned the platform desperately.

Near the back of the train, standing near a concrete pillar, I saw her.

Catalina.

Her dark hair was longer than I remembered, falling loosely over a worn denim jacket. She was clutching a thick manila folder to her chest like a shield.

She looked exhausted, terrified, but undeniably beautiful.

“Catalina!” I screamed her name, my voice tearing from my throat.

She turned.

Her eyes locked onto mine.

For one second, time completely stopped.

I saw three years of pain, of longing, of surviving, entirely concentrated in her gaze.

She took a step toward me.

But as she moved, two men in dark suits stepped out from behind the concrete pillar.

My mother’s security.

One of the men grabbed Catalina’s arm, twisting it violently behind her back.

The manila folder fell to the concrete floor, papers spilling everywhere.

Catalina screamed, fighting against his grip, but the second man grabbed her other arm, dragging her toward the heavy steel doors of the departing train.

They weren’t going to hurt her in public.

They were going to put her on that train, get her out of the city, and make sure she never came back.

A surge of rage, primal and blinding, exploded inside me.

I didn’t think. I didn’t calculate the risk.

I charged.

I tackled the first man at a full sprint, driving my shoulder directly into his ribs.

The impact sent us both crashing onto the hard concrete platform.

The second man let go of Catalina and reached inside his jacket, going for a weapon.

Before he could draw it, I kicked his knee with every ounce of strength I had.

He buckled with a shout of pain, collapsing against the side of the train car.

I scrambled to my feet, grabbing Catalina by the waist and pulling her tightly against my chest.

I didn’t care about the security guards recovering behind us.