The two men moved instantly. Long strides. Controlled.
They caught him before he reached the fence, lifting him under the arms with practiced care, keeping his flailing limbs from injury.
“Let me go!” he sobbed. “Dad! Dad!”
Every instinct in me screamed to stop this—to undo it, to gather him into my arms and give him back. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
They carried him up the stairs. He fought the entire way.
I followed, breath shaking, watching my son wage war with the only tools he had left.
Inside the jet, the cabin was quiet, luxurious, obscene in its calm.
Cream leather seats. Soft lighting. Silence thick as velvet.
They strapped him into the seat beside mine—soft restraints at his wrists and waist, designed to keep him safe, not comfortable.
He turned his head toward me, eyes blazing through tears.
“I hate you,” he said hoarsely. “You’re kidnapping me. You think Dad won’t find you? He always finds people.”
I sat down beside him, hands folded in my lap to keep them from shaking. “I don’t know what else to do,” I said quietly. “I’ve told you the truth. You’re already on this plane with me. Why would I lie now?”
“You’re good at lying,” he snapped. “That DNA paper is fake. And why didn’t you just ask me to come with you?” His voice cracked. “Why trick me?”
Because if I asked, you’d say no.
Because your father would stop us.
Because I was afraid you’d choose him.
“I was scared,” I admitted. “Scared you wouldn’t come. Scared you’d never give me a chance.”
“You’re full of lies,” he said, turning his face to the window. “I hate you.”
Silence fell between us—thick, suffocating.
I stared straight ahead at the bulkhead, refusing to cry. Refusing to beg.
He stared out at the runway, chest hitching, shoulders rigid with six-year-old fury and terror.
The jet began to taxi.
Engines whined. The vibration traveled through the floor, through my bones. The ground fell away.
We lifted off.
Only after the seatbelt sign chimed did he speak again, his voice smaller now, stripped of its sharp edges.
“So... where are you taking me?”
I turned toward him, heart breaking all over again.
“Greece,” I said softly.
He frowned, eyes still fixed on the drifting clouds outside the window. “Greece still exists?”
The question wasn’t sarcasm. It was earnest—like he truly wasn’t sure whether places could disappear the same way memories did.