POV: Emma
The plane bucks through a patch of turbulence and my stomach's in my throat.
I clutch the armrest, knuckles white, watching Knoxville slowly appear through breaks in the clouds, rolling green hills, rivers twisting like ribbons, forests so thick they look like something out of a fairy tale. It's a world away from Manhattan.
The wheels hit the tarmac with a screech and I finally let out the breath I didn't realize I'd been holding since I bolted out of that chapel. My chest aches from it.
Over the intercom, the flight attendant's voice crackles: "Welcome to Knoxville. Local time is 4:47 p.m."
Four hours ago, I was Emma Lawson: billionaire's daughter, runaway bride, tabloid headline.
Now, I'm just Emma.
No last name. No bottomless bank account. No future mapped out in boardrooms and prenups.
I grab my carry-on and step into the terminal. The air smells different here, earthy, clean. People stroll instead of rush. They actually look up and smile. A little kid chases a suitcase and nobody yells at him to stop.
And then, out of nowhere, Savannah barrels through the crowd, red curls flying, denim jacket covered in patches, big as life.
"Emma!" She slams into me with a hug that nearly knocks the air out of my lungs. "You did it! Holy hell, you really did it!"
I laugh, half relief, half disbelief. "I can't believe it either."
Savannah pulls back, eyes shining, hands on my shoulders. "You've been dying to break out of that cage for years. I'm just glad you finally made a break for it."
My throat goes tight. "What if I completely screwed up?"
She shrugs. "So what? If you're gonna screw up, at least do it running toward something instead of rotting in that old life. Now come on, we've got daylight to burn and your new place to see."
The drive out of Knoxville is forty-five minutes but it feels like crossing into another universe. Highways shrink to two-lane blacktop. Strip malls disappear, replaced by fields and woods. The mountains loom on both sides, old and watchful.
Savannah drives with the windows down, country songs blasting, belting out lyrics off-key without a care in the world. I can't remember the last time I was in a car that didn't have tinted windows and a driver in a suit.
"So," she says, turning the radio down, "I lined up a job for you. Wears Valley Elementary—art teacher. The last one bailed right before Christmas, so they're desperate."
"Savannah, I've never taught a day in my life."
She waves me off. "You've got an art history degree from Yale. Trust me, you'll manage. Kids are easy, just give them some paint and let them go wild."
I want to protest, but she's already pulling onto a gravel driveway. Trees crowd in overhead, the road bumpy with roots and ruts, until the woods finally open up.
And there it is.
A little white cottage, paint peeling, porch slouching on one side. A swing hanging from rusty chains squeaks in the wind.
It's perfect.
"Welcome home," Savannah says, turning off the engine.
I climb out, the gravel crunching beneath my boots. The air smells like rain and pine. Somewhere, a bird is singing. The closest neighbor is a speck of metal roof way off through the trees.
"It's not much," Savannah says, suddenly shy. "But it's furnished and the rent won't break you. Landlord's old, keeps to himself. I paid six months up front with the money you wired."
"It's perfect," I say, and I mean it.
Inside, it smells like cedar and a touch of dust. The furniture is old, mismatched, but solid. There's a couch you can actually sink into, a table with chairs that don't match, empty bookshelves waiting for stories.
No marble. No gold. No cold, spotless museum vibes.
"Bedroom's down the hall, bathroom mostly works, give the water a minute to heat up. Fireplace for winter." Savannah rattles off instructions.
I wander from room to room, trailing my fingers along the walls. Each room is smaller than my closet back in New York. The windows stick. The floor creaks.
I've never felt more at home.
"Thank you," I say, my voice barely holding steady. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
She hugs me again. "You'd figure it out. You're stronger than you think. Now go get unpacked. School starts Monday, you want to look like a grown-up, not a runaway."
She's gone before I can argue, her truck bouncing down the drive.
I start unpacking.
Out go the silk blouses and designer dresses. In go jeans and faded sweaters. I switch out high heels for scuffed boots. My jewelry stays buried, too flashy, too risky, too much of the old Emma.
I find an empty corkboard and tack it to the wall, lesson plans, sketches, ideas for the classroom. For the first time in ages, I'm planning a life that's actually mine.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
I almost leave it, almost bury it in a drawer for good.
But curiosity wins.
Three messages.
Sebastian: You can't run forever. I'll bring you back. You belong to me, Emma.
My stomach flips. He sounds so sure, like I'm some lost thing he owns.
Dad: Proud of you. Be who you need to be.
Tears sting. He always understood, even when he couldn't fix things.
Mom: You have humiliated us. You will regret this.
That one hurts the most. Because some part of me still wants her to be proud. Still hopes she'll understand.
But she never will.
I set the phone down, hands shaking. The house is quiet but alive, wind rattles the windows, the woods press in close, shadows stretching as the day fades.
This is my world now. Small. Quiet. Mine.
But the past isn't done with me. It never is.
I press the phone face-down on the table.
"I'm finished with that life," I whisper, even if I'm not totally sure I believe it. "This time, I mean it."
But deep down, I know the truth.
Promises are fragile things.
And the past doesn't give up that easy.
I drift to the window, watching night settle over the pines. Headlights flicker through the trees, inching up the mountain road. My heart stutters.
What if they found me already?
The lights fade away, swallowed by the dark.
I let out a shaky breath. Not tonight.
But the fear lingers, tight in my chest.
Because if there's one thing I know for sure—
Sebastian and my mother don't lose.
And now I'm the thing they're missing.
I close the curtains and turn the lock.
Tomorrow, I'll try to start over.
Tonight, I just hope I get the chance.