Marcus had no idea that plane tickets could cost as much as his dad had just paid. Yet, an hour later, his father dropped him off at the empty airport, and he was sprinting through security. Being nearly ten o'clock at night, the only people in the airport were staff and the other unfortunate folks who were traveling this late.
He squeezed into the middle seat, his shoulders invading the space of the two older men to his sides. Aside from a few irritated looks when he bumped them during turbulence, the uncomfortable nearly nine hour flight passed relatively pain free. Relatively, because every time he closed his eyes, his mind was a relentless slideshow of worst-case scenarios.
Tomorrow
The last words she'd said to him echoed in his mind. The slight skip as she hurried away from him to her car. He tried to keep those memories in the forefront, but the vision of her getting swarmed by jet-black murderous hamsters continued to invade his psyche. By the time wheels hit tarmac at Heathrow his stomach was in knots, his phone was still devoid of messages, and he was anxious to accomplish something. Anything would do at this point.
Task number one. Passport Control.
Marcus had left the United States a number of times in the past. All of those occasions had been for work, which made navigating customs relatively painless. Walking up to an immigration officer with nothing but his passport, wallet, and the clothes on his back raised more than a few eyebrows. It took a few minutes, but he assumed he hadn't raised any red flags because he was eventually let through.
Task number two. Figure out where the Harris family lived.
Did London have white pages? He scoured his mind as he hurried out of the airport, the early morning traffic here much harder to navigate than the dead of night at home. All he could remember was Chelsea. He pulled out his phone and started searching, really hoping Chelsea was a place and not some name he'd gotten jumbled up in his head.
"Oh, shit." Marcus blurted out as he bumped into an older gentleman.
"Watch where the fuck you're walkin'!" The old man issued him a much deserved admonishment.
"So sorry." Marcus held his hands up, finally looking up to see he'd made it outside to a taxi pick up area.
A cab. Excellent idea.
Channeling all he could of why Americans were generally the worst tourists in the world, Marcus pushed through the crowd with little care of who he was jostling until he found an open cab door where two men in suits were discussing how to split paying the cabbie. He slipped in right behind them, closed the door as he sat and held up his wallet.
"I'll pay you double if you can get me to someplace called Chelsea."
"Ehhh an American." He smirked into the rearview as he pulled out, leaving cursing businessmen in their wake. "You made me an offer I couldn't refuse." The middle-aged cab driver held his hand up as he did his best Marlon Brando impression.
"This might be a longshot, but you don't know where I'd find a Harris estate? I know it's in Chelsea, but that's it." Marcus got himself buckled up as the cab eased into traffic.
"Estate? Nah, I know Harris Townhouses. Pretty sure that's Chelsea. That what you're looking for?"
"Maybe." Marcus said, quickly searching his phone again.
Harris Townhouses Chelsea England
Harris Townhomes was owned by a company called Harris Holdings Inc. which led him to another website that provided a full list of companies. After confirming Harris Townhomes was on it, he checked the About Us page. A picture of a strong jawed man with salt and pepper hair and a beautiful blond woman popped up on the screen. Ophelia sat between them on a chair of dark wood with crimson upholstery.
"Yeah, that's the place. How fast can we get there?"
"With this traffic, hard to say." The cabbie gave him a shrug and glanced over his shoulder, clearly giving him the once over. "You sure that's where you're headed?"
Marcus glanced down at his phone again and shrugged. "Yeah, why?"
"Just don't look the type." He returned Marcus' shrug. "It's a posh spot. Lot of old money. You're an American with no luggage, look a little frazzled, and if I had to guess…you probably don't come from money."
Marcus gnawed at his lip, but nodded. "That's a good trick." He acknowledged. "I'm just going to check in on a friend."
The cab ride took almost an hour through excruciating traffic. Though the cab driver kept him relatively engaged with light banter, Marcus found it harder and harder to focus on the conversation. His stomach churned as he watched the city pass by. The analytical part of his mind was trying to explain to him why everything seemed so congested compared to home. It was like shoving the population of the greater Knoxville area into the same spot ten times over.
The explanation would not take root.
All he could do was watch as his GPS updated on his phone screen, inching him closer.
Marcus paid the cabbie with his phone, leaving a tip that doubled the amount of his fare. He sprinted across the street to the tinted glass doors, his eyes immediately drawn to the large brass handles. The handle on the left shaped like a W and the one on the right an H. He flung the door open and hurried through the open, silent reception area.
It occurred to him in that moment, he probably looked as far from sane as he could get. He'd been in the same clothes for more than a day now, fiery red hair shooting off in random directions, and fatigue weighing down his features. He waved to the young woman at reception, anyway.
"Hi…ummm…" He took in a deep breath and leaned against her counter. "Look, I know this is going to sound like I'm a weird stalker or something, but I need to see Ophelia Harris."
The look she gave him, he now realized, must have been cultural. It landed somewhere between astonishment at his boldness and about to break down laughing. He'd seen it many times on Ophelia's face.
"Sure, mate. Let me call up, let the owners know an American is here to see their daughter." She snorted.
Marcus pushed his fingers through his hair and grumbled. "Please. I'm a friend of hers, I swear. I'm just here to make sure she's okay."
The woman cocked an eyebrow at him, but after a moment his plea drove some movement out of her at least. Just not quite the way he'd wanted. "Security." She said into the phone. "Got another nutter in the lobby."
"Marcus?"
The world around him slowed to a crawl. The receptionist's eyebrows went up, but that was the last of her he saw before he spun. There she stood. Showered, composed, and dressed so elegantly that he could have mistaken her for royalty.
The fear. The worry that took over his body for the past twelve or so hours suddenly fell away, leaving his limbs weak as relief rocked through him. She was there, and fine, and staring at him with that same look.
"How…?" Her lips pursed only to spread into a wide smile. "You flew here?"
"You—you didn't answer my texts." It was all he could say. It felt absurd. No, it was absurd, but it was true. He stepped toward her once. "I was worried."
"I left in such a hurry, I forgot my phone at my house." She held up a bag between delicate fingers. "I just popped out to…hang on." She checked her watch and then furrowed her brow at him. "How did you get here so fast?"
"Red-eye," he said, taking another step toward her. "You beat me here."
"Private jet." She shrugged, her pleated skirt swishing to and fro with a couple of steps. "Commercial in the middle of the night sounds awful." The pity she tried to show couldn't break through the enormous grin.
"It was awful." Marcus let out an airy chuckle as he took a final hesitant step to gaze down at her.
Her laugh was soft and disbelieving as they met in the center of the lobby. "I can't believe you're here," she whispered, as if speaking any louder would shatter the moment. Ophelia reached up, fingertips drumming against the center of his chest. "And in the same clothes?" she teased.
"Well, I wasn't exactly fashion focused this trip," he whispered back. The light floral scent of her filled his nose, and he found his hands reaching out. Like his body naturally yearned to touch her. Like if he didn't, she might not really be there.
"You rarely are." The husky whisper and the brief flick of her eyes—from his to his lips then back again—broke his brain. Anything witty, or even remotely coherent, flew off with the remainder of his inhibitions.
His heart leapt like a spooked fawn when his fingers made contact with her waist, and he slowly leaned down toward her. She lifted on her toes to meet him. A collision course in mid-flight, their lips mere hairs away. In the time between thrumming heartbeats, Marcus felt the room and entire world around them hold its collective breath.
Then the yelling started.
"Marcus Tenneson! On the ground!"
Numerous men and women flooded the otherwise empty reception from any and every imaginable angle. All black tactical gear, magitech carbines trained on him, and Arcanex security badges on every chest.
Ophelia screamed, but when he reached out for her, he got nothing but open air. Then his face hit the ground. Stars filled his vision and the world around him spun. A knee, maybe an elbow, planted in the back of his neck as they wrenched his arms behind his back, ziptieing his wrists together twice over. He felt cold metal rest against the base of his skull, and then heard the soft ding of an elevator, which silenced the room.
Click-Clack-Click-Clack
His face pressed to cold marble, he couldn't make out much from knee up, but the fancy wing-tips that parted the sea of Arcanex boots were hard to miss.
"Daddy?" Ophelia's voice cracked through her tears and hung for a moment in the silence. "What's going on?"
"Take her up to the townhouse, please." The man's voice was smooth, in control. "Mr. Tenneson and I need to have a conversation."