The Runaway Bride

The golden morning light filtered through the expansive bedroom windows, striking Sloane’s face with unyielding brightness. She squinted, groaning aloud as a massive hangover pounded relentlessly against her skull. Opening her eyes, a sharp ache radiated through her naked body, particularly pulsing between her thighs. She shifted her weight on the mattress, rubbing her forehead. Her gaze slowly drifted downward and landed on a distinct patch of crimson blood staining the pristine white bedsheets.

Panic immediately gripped her throat. The raw, explicit sexual intercourse she vaguely remembered from the night prior was not a dream.

She frantically scanned the unfamiliar, massive bedroom. The decor was sleek and devoid of any personal touches. She was alone. The man from last night was nowhere in sight. Grabbing a discarded white sheet, she wrapped it tightly around her bare chest and hurried into the adjoining bathroom. Turning on the faucet, she splashed freezing water over her flushed face, trying to shock herself awake and wash away the lingering fog.

As her hands gripped the edges of the marble sink, she froze in shock. A gleaming new wedding ring sat secured firmly on her left ring finger.

Snippets of the wild night crashed into her fragile mind. The cheap neon lights of the twenty-four-hour chapel. The slurred vows. Then, the intense friction as his cock penetrated her pussy, driving deep inside her over and over while they both cried out.

She stared at her pale reflection in the mirror. Her breath hitched. "I do not have the mental capacity to stress over this right now," she muttered.

Acting purely on flight instinct, she dropped the sheet and rushed into the hallway. She quickly located her scattered clothes from the floor, dressing in a frantic hurry. She slipped out of the silent ocean-view villa, hailed a passing cab, and directed the driver straight back to her city apartment.

Sloane jammed her key into the lock and pushed open her apartment door. She stopped dead in her tracks. Gemma and Brooke lounged casually on her living room sofa.

"What are you two doing here?" Sloane asked, her voice raspy. "How did you even manage to get in?"

Gemma grinned, casually swinging a set of spare keys on her index finger. "You gave these to me, remember?"

Brooke sprang up from the cushions, launching straight into a teasing interrogation. "Spill it! We need every single dirty detail right this second. How did you enjoy yourself with the billionaire Rowan Lancaster? We saw you leave the club with him." Brooke clapped her hands together. "Oh my god, Sloane, you finally gave it up! Welcome to womanhood!"

Sloane rubbed her throbbing temples, feeling physically drained and emotionally exhausted. "Fine. I will fill you in. But first, I desperately need a hot shower and a massive plate of food before I submit to any of your relentless questions."

Ignoring their groans of protest, she locked herself in the bathroom for a thirty-minute shower, letting the scalding water soothe her aching muscles. Once dressed in comfortable sweats, she marched into the kitchen, threw together a heavy breakfast, and sat at the counter, devouring the food ravenously.

Brooke rested her elbows on the kitchen island, watching her eat. "Please tell me your incredibly wealthy new lover didn't just let you starve this morning. Look at you stuffing your face."

"He wasn't there when I woke up," Sloane admitted honestly. "My only coherent thought was to escape that unfamiliar house as fast as humanly possible."

"I am sure he had a valid reason," Brooke reasoned. "Probably a corporate emergency came up. A man like him is always busy."

During the exchange, Gemma remained quiet. Her sharp eyes darted from Sloane’s flushed, glowing face down to her left hand resting on the counter. Gemma gasped loudly, pointing a shaking finger at the jewelry. "Oh my god, LoLo. Please tell me you aren't gone."

Sloane felt her cheeks burn a deep beet red. She lowered her fork. "We did engage in explicit sexual intercourse," she confessed. "But as for the marriage and that ring... I am way too stressed to process it." She shoved her plate away, establishing her firm stance. "I am leaving the country in exactly two days for work. I plan to ignore this entire situation."

Meanwhile, across the city, Rowan steered his luxury car into the driveway of his quiet ocean-view villa. He cut the engine, grabbed a paper bag of take-out breakfast and two cups of hot espresso, and headed inside. He fully expected to find his brand-new wife resting in bed, exhausted after their intense, physically draining night of sex.

He stepped confidently up the stairs and into the master bedroom. He abruptly stopped, cocking an eyebrow in deep confusion.

The bed was empty. The sheets were messy and stained, but the woman was gone.

Frustration mounted in his chest. He set the warm food down on the nightstand and rubbed his temples. He strode down the hall, thoroughly searching every single spare bedroom and bathroom. The house remained silent. She was nowhere to be found.

His annoyance peaked when a glaring flaw in their drunken escapade dawned on him. In the heat of the moment, they had rushed to the chapel and then straight to his bed. He didn't even bother to get his runaway bride's phone number.

Forced to eat his carefully bought breakfast in absolute silence, Rowan chewed his food methodically in the kitchen, his jaw tight with irritation. Once finished, he headed straight outside to his waiting luxury car.

He yanked the back door open and slid into the plush leather seat. He fixed a cold glare on his assistant, Nolan, who already sat in the front passenger seat.

"Run a comprehensive, full-scale background check on Sloane," Rowan barked the strict order. "Track down her exact whereabouts and secure her phone digits. I want to know everything."

"Right away, sir," Nolan replied smoothly, as the driver pulled away from the curb, heading straight to the company.

Upon arriving at the towering headquarters of the Lancaster Group, Rowan strode purposefully through the expansive marble lobby. He ignored the drooling whispers and dropped jaws of his female employees, who stared at him as if it were Christmas morning. He stepped into his private elevator and retreated straight to his spacious 35th-floor executive office.

He walked past the floor-to-ceiling windows and sat at his massive mahogany desk. A mountain of urgent corporate documents awaited his signature, stacked high in neat piles. He picked up his expensive pen, ready to tackle the workload. But as he signed the first few contracts, his sharp mind kept relentlessly drifting back to the mysterious stranger. He had impulsively made the biggest decision of his life with a woman he barely knew.

A dark, possessive smile tugged at the corners of his lips. He leaned back in his leather chair, abandoning the paperwork. He vividly recalled how perfectly in sync their naked bodies had been throughout the night. He thought about her timid obedience while taking his cock, a sharp contrast to her wild, defiant behavior at the Neon club just hours prior. Her soft breasts pressed against his chest, her tight vagina gripping him as he drove into her—the sensory memory sent a fresh surge of heat straight to his groin.

He relished the predatory thought of tracking her down. He started devising all kinds of wicked, dominant ways to physically punish her for daring to run away from him. By the time he was done with her, he vowed silently, she would be begging for mercy in his bed.