Runaway Lover: Escaping The Ruthless Billionaire

Caroline pushed the heavy velvet blanket off her chest, and a sharp, tearing ache ripped through her lower back the second she moved, making her suck in a harsh breath and bite the inside of her cheek to keep from making a sound as her muscles trembled, protesting the sudden movement; she swung her bare legs over the edge of the mattress—the room pitch black—and reached out, her hands blindly searching the carpet for her clothes, until her toe struck something hard, a champagne bottle tipping over and hitting the floorboard with a sharp, glass-on-wood clink that sent her heart slamming into her throat so hard it choked her. On the massive king bed, the man let out a low, rumbling groan. He shifted, rolling onto his side. His broad, muscular back blocked the faint sliver of moonlight coming through the curtains. Caroline stopped breathing, pressing her bare spine flat against the cold wall with her fingers digging into the wallpaper, and she waited—one second, ten seconds—until the man's breathing evened out into a deep, steady rhythm, still asleep, and her lungs burned as she finally exhaled; she dropped to her knees and snatched her black lace bra from the rug, her hands shaking so violently that the metal hooks slipped from her fingers and she failed to fasten the back clasp three times before it finally clicked. Next was her evening gown. The hem was completely torn. She pulled the ruined fabric over her head, the silk rubbing against her bruised skin with a friction that sounded like sandpaper in the dead silence of the penthouse, and she forced herself to slow down, inch by agonizing inch. She needed her clutch. Caroline patted the surface of the mahogany nightstand, her fingertips brushing against cold metal and a leather strap—a Patek Philippe watch—and the heavy, icy weight of the luxury timepiece sent a shockwave of class disparity straight into her bones, making her yank her hand back as if the watch had burned her; then her hand found her clutch, and beside it lay the half-broken silver fox mask she had worn to the masquerade, which she grabbed and shoved into her bag, only for a sharp pain to slice across her index finger as the jagged rhinestone edge of the mask cut her skin, a single drop of warm blood welling up that she ignored. She walked barefoot toward the heavy bedroom door, her survival instincts kicking in as she tested each floorboard with the lightest touch, listening for the faintest groan of the wood and moving with the practiced silence of someone used to escaping notice—moving like a ghost—until her hand wrapped around the brass doorknob and pressed it down, the stiff mechanical lock letting out a tiny, metallic click that made her freeze again, throwing a terrified glance over her shoulder; the man did not move, so Caroline yanked the door open, slipped through the gap, and pulled it shut behind her. The harsh, fluorescent lights of the hotel hallway stabbed her eyes. She blinked rapidly, temporarily blinded by the stark white glare. She didn't stop. She carried her high heels in one hand and ran down the long corridor, the thick carpet burning the soles of her bare feet and turning them raw and red. As she neared the corner, the sharp crackle of a security radio echoed off the walls. Caroline threw her body to the side, ducking into an unlocked janitor's closet and slamming her hand over her own mouth, tasting her own blood from the cut finger. Heavy combat boots stopped right outside the closet door. A beam from a tactical flashlight swept across the floor, catching the torn edge of her gown through the crack under the door. Her stomach dropped. She squeezed her eyes shut, her muscles locking up, and braced herself for the door to be ripped open. "We need backup in the main lobby," the radio hissed. The boots pivoted. The footsteps faded down the hall. Caroline's rigid shoulders collapsed, and she sagged against the mop bucket, gasping for air. She pushed the closet door open and sprinted straight for the service elevator. Earlier, in her panicked escape down the hall, her hand had brushed against an abandoned housekeeping cart, and her fingers had instinctively closed around a master keycard left resting on its edge. She prayed it was the right one as she swiped it. The metal doors slid open. She stepped inside. The freight elevator jerked downward with a violent shudder. Caroline leaned her head against the freezing steel wall of the cabin, and her mind betrayed her, flashing back to last night—the man in the black hawk mask, his crushing grip on her waist, his feverish, consuming kisses that tasted like expensive scotch and danger. The elevator dinged. The doors opened to the underground parking garage. Caroline peeked around the corner. A black Maybach sat idling near the exit, its headlights cutting through the gloom. She yanked her head back, pressing herself deep into the shadows of a concrete pillar. The Maybach's tires squealed as it drove up the ramp and disappeared. Caroline tracked the overhead ventilation ducts, her eyes finding the red glow of the emergency exit sign, and she pushed the heavy fire door open, stumbling out into the Manhattan dawn. The freezing November wind slapped her bare shoulders. Icy rain pelted her skin. Her teeth chattered violently as she wrapped her arms around her torn dress. She stood by the flooded curb, waving her hand. Three yellow cabs sped past her, the drivers taking one look at her ruined clothes and messy hair before hitting the gas. A fourth cab finally screeched to a halt. The window rolled down. "Where to?" the driver asked in a thick Brooklyn accent. "Queens. The old apartments on 43rd," Caroline said, her voice hoarse. The driver eyed her through the rearview mirror, taking in her disheveled state. "Pay upfront." Heat rushed to Caroline's cheeks. She dug through her clutch with trembling fingers, pulling out crumpled bills and scraping together exactly thirty dollars. The driver snatched the cash and slammed the meter down. The cab lurched forward. The tires hit a massive puddle, splashing dirty water onto a pedestrian's trench coat. Caroline slumped against the cold window glass, exhaustion settling deep into her bones. The cab drove through Times Square, slowing to a stop at a red light. She lifted her heavy eyelids and looked out the window. The massive circular billboard above the NASDAQ building was broadcasting breaking financial news. A corporate merger for the Ross Consortium. The screen flashed to a close-up of the CEO's side profile. A razor-sharp jawline. A tiny, distinct scar just behind his left ear. It was the exact same jawline she had kissed hours ago. The exact same scar her fingers had traced in the dark. Caroline's pupils dilated. Her nails dug so hard into the cracked leather seat that they almost snapped. A tidal wave of pure, suffocating terror crashed over her. The headline screamed in bold red letters: BILLIONAIRE'S RUTHLESS TAKEOVER. She couldn't breathe. Her chest seized. She had just slept with a Wall Street tyrant. A man who destroyed lives for sport. The light turned green. The cab jerked forward, throwing Caroline hard against the seatback. Any lingering thought of demanding compensation for her torn dress vanished. She unzipped her clutch and pulled out the silver fox mask, then rolled the window down an inch and, with a violent shove, pushed the mask through the gap—it fell into the street, washing straight into a Manhattan storm drain—and she knew, with a cold, final certainty, that she would take this secret to her grave.