Chapter 2 : The Great Escape

Valentina turned back toward the makeup artists. 

The room froze. 

Three women stood petrified, brushes trembling in mid-air, palettes forgotten. They felt the shift before their minds could name it—the bride in white organza was no longer a fragile doll. She was a storm wearing silk.

Her gaze—dark brown, rich earth after rain—swept over them slowly, deliberately. It settled on the smallest: petite frame, wild brown curls spilling over narrow shoulders, practical black sneakers peeking beneath pressed uniform pants. The girl kept her head bowed, shoulders hunched as though she could vanish into the marble if she tried hard enough.

Valentina crossed the floor in measured steps. The girl’s breathing hitched. 

“What is your name?” The question came out flat, almost bored.

The girl lifted her head just enough to blink, confusion warring with terror. “Pardon?”

Irritation flashed behind Valentina’s eyes like lightning. She leaned in slightly. 

“I said… What. Is. Your. Name?”

A swallow. A stutter. “M-my name… it’s Mia. Mia Bennet.”

Valentina gave one sharp nod. Her gaze dropped to the sneakers—plain, scuffed, gloriously ordinary. 

“Mia,” she said, voice softer but no less commanding, “I need your sneakers. You can have my heels.”

She slipped one ivory stiletto from her foot and held it out. The shoe was obscene elegance: sheer floral appliqués climbing the straps like delicate vines, ribbons trailing like whispered secrets, the kind of heel that cost more than most people’s rent and screamed old-money restraint. Mia’s eyes widened to saucers. The other two artists exchanged horrified glances.

Valentina didn’t wait. She kicked off the second heel and nudged both toward Mia’s feet. 

Mia hesitated, fingers shaking. Then, slowly, she slipped out of her sneakers.

Valentina bent—graceful, unhurried—and slid the plain black shoes onto her own feet. They fit perfectly. Almost insultingly so. 

She took three slow steps. Rubber soles kissed marble with soft, defiant thuds. Comfort. Freedom. 

A smile curved her lips—slow, sharp, predatory. 

The three women shivered as though winter had just walked into the room wearing white lace.

Valentina’s gaze flicked to the vanity. Tissues. A heavy fountain pen resting beside a crystal vase of white roses. Inspiration struck like a blade between the ribs.

She snatched a tissue, uncapped the pen with her teeth, and scrawled in sharp, slashing strokes. When she folded the note in half, the paper felt like a guillotine blade between her fingers.

She pressed it into Mia’s clammy palm. “When the priest announces my entrance, you will give this to my groom. Do you understand?”

Mia nodded so fast her curls bounced. “Y-yes, ma’am.”

Valentina didn’t linger. She gathered the long silk bedsheets from the chaise—pristine, expensive, useless for anything but this—and knotted them with ruthless efficiency. One end secured to the balcony railing. The other she tossed over the edge.

She climbed onto the railing in a rustle of organza and lace, veil fluttering like a ghost behind her. The wind clawed at her hair. Below, the drop yawned—second floor to manicured lawn. High enough to break bones. Low enough to survive.

The makeup artists rushed to the railing, faces pale. 

“Ma’am… what are you doing?” Mia’s voice cracked.

Valentina glanced up, eyes glittering. 

“I’m trying gymnastics,” she snapped, sarcasm dripping like venom. “Can’t you see I’m running away from my wedding?”

She began her descent, palms burning against silk, gown billowing like dark wings caught in a storm. Halfway down she paused—suspended between heaven and hell—heart slamming against her ribs with something dangerously close to joy.

Mia leaned farther over the edge. “Uh… that I can tell, Ma’am. But… why?”

Valentina dropped the last few feet, landing in a crouch that ripped the hem higher. She straightened, dusted her palms, cupped her hands around her mouth, and looked up. 

“Because I refuse to marry a man who will cheat on me. Again. And again. And again.”

She hiked the ruined silk to her thighs and ran—sneakers slapping stone, veil streaming like spilled blood.

Behind her, the makeup artists stared in stunned silence. 

“She’s possessed,” one whispered. 

“Or just terrified?But what do we do?” another hissed. “Should we inform her parents?” 

Mia clutched the note tighter. “We do what she said. Unless you want to be the ones she comes back for.”

Valentina burst through the side doors into the foyer. Guests still lingered, champagne flutes catching chandelier light like falling stars. She took the sweeping red-carpeted stairs two at a time, heart pounding in time with her steps.

At the bottom she scanned wildly. Limousines. Town cars. And there: a black Bentley Continental, windows blacker than sin,sleek and predatory, idling near the curb like it had been waiting for her.A man in a crisp black suit—personal assistant, driver, bodyguard, whatever—emerged from the rear left door and rounded to open the right.

Valentina didn’t hesitate. She bolted forward, shoved the startled man aside with surprising strength, and threw herself into the backseat.

She slammed against a hard, warm male body. The door thudded shut behind her like a coffin lid.

“Drive!” she barked at the man behind the wheel. “Now. Fast.”

Silence.

The driver’s eyes flicked to the man beside her.

Valentina finally looked—really looked.

Sharp jaw carved from granite. Eyes the color of banked embers—dark, molten, unreadable. Lean, coiled muscle beneath an impeccably tailored black suit. Not bulky. Controlled. Lethal.

Her mouth went dry.Damn. He is exactly my type.

He tilted his head, expression carved from midnight. “Get. Out. Of. My. Car. Now.”

She swallowed. “No.Tell your driver to move. Or else.”

He leaned in, close enough that she smelled cedar, smoke, and something darker—power. 

“Or else what?”

Her gaze dropped. The gun at his waist—black, matte, lethal. 

Instinct took over.

She snatched it in one fluid motion, pressed the cold barrel to his temple. 

“Or else I shoot you,” she said, voice steady despite the tremor in her hands, “and then I force your driver to obey at gunpoint.”

Silence. Thick. Electric. 

Then—slowly—a smirk curled the corner of his mouth. Dark. Amused. Dangerous. 

“Leo,” he said without breaking eye contact, “you heard the lady. Drive.”

The Bentley surged forward, tires biting gravel, iron gates flashing past before Edmund’s men could close the distance.

Valentina kept the gun trained on his forehead even as the venue shrank in the rearview. 

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t beg. 

Instead, he picked up his tablet and scrolled through documents as though she were holding a pen, not a loaded weapon.

The double doors swung wide. 

Every head turned. 

But no bride appeared. 

Instead, Mia stood trembling at the threshold, clutching a folded tissue.

Valentina’s parents—Marcus and Helena Romano—and her adopted sister Lilianth stared in shock as Mia approached the dais on shaking legs. 

Edmund’s brows furrowed. “Where is Valentina?”

Mia’s voice quavered. “Sir… please read the message. You’ll understand.”

He took the tissue, unfolded it. 

The words stared back at him in slashing ink:

“If you think I didn’t know about the little affair you were having with my sister, then you’re an idiot. 

I’m leaving you standing at the altar so you get humiliated while I sit on a beach drinking wine. 

Now go marry the love of your life—or fuck yourself. I don’t care.”

Below the words: a crude doodle—an ugly stick-figure man being kicked in the shin by a woman running away, middle finger raised triumphantly, surrounded by tiny curse words.

Edmund’s face darkened to thunder. 

Marcus, Helena, and Alessia leaned over his shoulder. 

A collective scandalized gasp ripped through them.

“Is she out of her mind?” Helena hissed, cheeks scarlet with rage. 

“Does she not care about the Romano reputation?” Marcus snarled. 

Alessia let out a perfectly timed sob. “Mom, Dad… I didn’t have any affair with brother-in-law…”

Helena immediately pulled her into a hug. “I know, baby. She’s finally gone crazy. Don’t let her lies hurt you.”

Edmund crumpled the paper in his fist. His voice boomed across the hall. 

“Find. Her. Now.”

Back in the Bentley, tires eating asphalt as it roared away from the venue.

Valentina kept the gun pressed to his forehead long after the iron gates disappeared. 

The man beside her—sharp jaw, ember eyes flecked with gold, lean muscle coiled beneath black—didn’t flinch. Didn’t beg. 

He scrolled through documents on his tablet as though she were holding a flower, not a loaded weapon.

She stared.

He felt her gaze. Without looking up: “I know my beauty is… distracting. But you don’t have to stare like a starving woman at a feast, darling.”

“I’m not staring,” she snapped, cheeks heating despite herself.

“And I’m currently not aiding and abetting a runaway bride.” He paused, eyes flicking to her. “I came to attend a wedding. Not star in your little rebellion fantasy.”

She scoffed. “You’re not being starred in anything. I don’t even know who you are.”

Surprise—genuine, sharp—flashed across his face. “You… don’t know who I am?”

She bristled. “What, are you the president? Should I have memorized your face from the evening news?”

He studied her like she was a puzzle he suddenly wanted to break apart piece by bloody piece. “You really don’t know.”

Irritation flared hot. “Did your mother forget to give you a name, or are you just that arrogant?”

A low, dark chuckle rolled from his chest—velvet over broken glass. It sent ice skittering down her spine.

“She gave me a name,” he murmured. “A very powerful one. If you want it… you’ll have to earn it.”

“How much?”

He blinked. “What?”

“How much does your precious name cost?” She shrugged, feigning nonchalance even as her pulse thundered. “Name your price. I’ll pay.”

“I don’t want your money.” His voice dropped lower, darker. “I just don’t feel like telling you.”

She pouted—actually pouted, offended—before she could stop herself. “Fine. Who wants to know your stuck-up name anyway?”

He studied her for a long beat. Then, in a whisper that felt like a caress and a threat at once:

“Zavian.”

She blinked. “What?”

He leaned closer, amber eyes locking on hers, gold flecks igniting. 

“My name is Zavian Moretti.”

The gun trembled in her hand for the first time.

The words landed like a claim.

The Bentley sped into the night, two strangers bound by gunmetal, betrayal’s echo, and the kind of tension that could ignite empires—or burn them to ash.

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To Be Continued

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