Married to the Billionaire Who Betrayed Me novel Chapter 237

Chapter 237-The Trap Is Waiting

Tristan stared at the blueprint. He hated the risk. He hated leaving me exposed. He accepted the necessity. We possessed no other option. Sterling held the noose. We needed to cut the rope.

“Five minutes, Tristan agreed. His tone offered zero room for error. You get five minutes. Then you walk out.”

The cargo plane hit a pocket of turbulence. The steel floor dropped, I grabbed Tristan’s arm. The wooden crates shifted, groaning against their securing straps. The pilot corrected the pitch. The flight leveled out.

I leaned my head against the cold bulkhead. I closed my eyes.

The silence between us stretched. The tactical planning ended. The emotional reality rushed back to fill the voic

“Elias,” I whispered. The name slipped past my lips.

Tristan wrapped his arm around my shoulders. He pulled me tight against his side.

“Diego will keep him hidden, Tristan said. He rested his chin on the top of my head. “Diego would take a bullet before he let anyone touch our son.”

“I know.” My chest ached. A physical, crushing pressure. “I just miss his face. I miss his voice.”

“We steal the ledger,” Tristan vowed. “We destroy Sterling. We go home.”

“Julian,” I said. The second name tasted foul. The blood debt.

Tristan tensed. ‘Do not think about Julian right now. We solve one problem at a time.”

“The broker demands a prison break,’ I pressed. I opened my eyes. I looked at the dark ceiling of the cargo hold. “We steal the ledger. We clear our names. Then we become actual fugitives to break Julian out of a supermax? The math fails, Tristan.”

‘I will figure it out, Tristan promised. The warlord offered a shield. “I made the deal. I will pay the cost.”

I shifted. I looked up at his face. The dim reading light cast harsh shadows across his features.

“We pay the cost,’ I corrected. “We are partners. You do not carry the debt alone.”

He lowered his head. He captured my lips. A slow, punishing kiss. A silent agreement. We shared the empire. We shared the dirt.

The pitch of the engines changed. The roar deepened. The plane began a steep descent. My ears popped. The temperature in the hold dropped another ten degrees.

‘We are landing, Tristan announced. He clicked the reading light off. He shoved the blueprints into his vest.

The wheels hit the ground with a bone-shattering impact. The plane bounced. The brakes screamed. We slid across a rough, unpaved runway. The aircraft shuddered and came to a violent halt.

Tristan stood up. He offered me his hand. I took it. He pulled me to my feet. My legs felt stiff.

The heavy hydraulic ramp at the rear of the plane lowered. Pale moonlight spilled into the cargo hold. The biting wind of the European mountains whipped

inside

We walked down the ramp.

We stood on a dirt airstrip surrounded by towering, snow-capped peaks. A rusted fuel truck sat near the edge of the tree line. Two men stood beside the

truck. They wore heavy coats. They held rifles across their chests.

“The truck is behind the trees, the scarred man wheezed. ‘Keys are in the ignition. The forged IDs and the untraceable comms are in the glovebox.”

Tristan did not say thank you. He turned. He placed his hand on the small of my back. He guided me toward the tree line. I lowered my weapon. I engaged the safety. I returned the gun to my pocket.

We found a dark, battered SUV hidden in the brush. Tristan opened the driver’s side door. He checked the glovebox. He pulled out two pristine Swiss passports and two encrypted earpieces.

He handed me a passport.

I opened the small book. A flawless replica. A new name. A new identity.

We drive to Geneva, Tristan stated. He climbed into the driver’s scat

I slid into the passenger side. I shut the heavy door. The heater blasted warm air into the frozen cabin.

Tristan started the engine. He turned on the headlights. The beams illuminated a narrow dirt road leading down the mountain.

The burner phone in Tristan’s vest chirped.

He pulled it out. He checked the screen. The encrypted message icon blinked.

“Ricardo?” I asked.

Tristan read the message. His jaw locked. The storm returned to his eyes.

“No,” Tristan said. He handed the phone to me. “The broker.”