His Collateral Bride:A Billionaire Romance

Layla's legs were a blur of motion, burning with every stride. She didn't know where she was headed, only that stopping wasn't an option.

The streets of downtown Jacksonville streaked past her in a smear of neon and concrete. She caught flashes of vibrant graffiti jagged colors on the wall but there was no time to admire the art. Not when her heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Her breath came in shallow, jagged gasps. She ran like her life depended on it, mostly because she knew it did. She didn't dare look back. If she did, she feared she'd see those faces, their scarred skin and yellowed teeth looming right over her shoulder.

"Oh, no," she gasped, her shoes skidding on loose gravel. Dead end.

A towering brick wall rose before her, high and insurmountable. She spun around, her eyes darting through the shadows of the alley, searching for an exit. There was none. In the corner, three overflowing garbage cans sat huddled together. It was a desperate, crazy gamble, but she eyed the distance between the bins and the top of the wall.

Suddenly, the sound reached her, the screech of metal dragging across the pavement.

They were here. They had found her.

She glanced from the darkness of the entrance to the bins, mentally calculating the physics of a climb. Please God, she whispered the Lord's prayer, the faces of her family and their dog, Beth, flashing behind her eyelids like she was saying goodbye.

"You can run, but you can't hide," a voice sang out from the mouth of the alley. The flickering streetlight barely reached the figure. 

Layla squinted into the darkness. Without her glasses, which she had lost when she'd been shoved into a wall a few blocks away, the world was a smear of black and gray. She reached out, her fingers searching the cold dampness of the alley for a pipe, a board, anything to use as a weapon. Her hands found only dirt.

Creditors had been hanging around her life for months. They had harassed her father until the day he died, and now, they had come to collect their money from his daughter. She had stayed late at the office, leaving only two colleagues behind. After a fruitless wait for a yellow cab, she had decided to walk, hoping to catch a stray ride. She hadn't realized her father's creditors had been waiting in the shadows of her own workplace.

She had a 5'5 figure which she often used to her advantage, just like this night. She dropped her bag, slipped through a gap between the two smaller men, and bolted. She knew instinctively that if they didn't get their money tonight, they would settle for a different kind of currency.

Three silhouettes detached themselves from the darkness. The leader stepped forward, the cherry a lit cigarette glowing between his lips. His smirk made Layla's stomach turn. She felt the bile rising, the dinner she'd eaten an hour ago threatening to reappear. He exhaled a plume of smoke, his smirk twisting into something predatory. Layla backed away until the cold brick bit into her shoulder blades.

"Nowhere left to run, little girl. Where is my money?" he growled, stepping into her personal space.

"I, I don't have it yet," Layla stuttered, her stomach churning. "We need more time."

"Time's up." He leaned in, the stench of stale tobacco and malice washing over her. Layla flinched, bracing for a blow, but instead felt a rough finger trace the line of her jaw. "You know, there are other ways to settle a debt. Ways you might actually enjoy."

The fear in Layla's gut turned to white-hot sparks of rage. She leaned forward and spat directly into his face.

"I will never give you my body."

"Bitch!" The man roared. He lunged, his hand hooking into the collar of her shirt. The sound of ripping fabric echoed off the alley walls. Layla gasped, clutching the torn material to her chest to cover herself.

"I'll have you on the floor this very minute," he hissed, "and there won't be a soul to stop me."

"Get your filthy hands off her."

The voice was like a blade cold, sharp, and perfectly calm.

The thugs froze. Layla squinted past them, seeing a tall figure silhouetted against the streetlights at the alley's entrance. Her attacker shoved her aside, sending her sprawling onto the damp ground, and turned his attention to the interloper.

"Who the hell are you to tell me what to do?" the leader barked.

The stranger didn't move. He kept his hands casually in his pockets. "I will pay you double what her father owes if you walk away right now."

The leader's anger vanished, replaced by a greedy glimmer. He shared a look with his cronies, then began to walk toward the stranger, leaving Layla forgotten in the dirt. The stranger gestured to a second man standing in the shadows behind him. "He will wire the funds now."

As the transaction began, the stranger approached Layla. As he drew closer, the blur resolved into a sharp, handsome face with an air of absolute authority. Layla watched him with narrowed, guarded eyes.

He reached down, his grip firm and steady as he helped her to her feet. Layla pulled her torn shirt tight, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. 

"What do you want from me?" she demanded, her voice trembling but sharp.

A small, enigmatic smile tugged at his lips, revealing teeth that seemed too perfect for a place this dark. He peeled off his tailored suit jacket and draped it over her shoulders; the warmth of his body heat and the scent of expensive cologne immediately enveloped her.

"Straight to the point. I like that," he said. He looked her dead in the eye. "I am Dave Wilson and I want us to get married."