The Villain's Popular Apocalyptic Bride

The bloody leather whip hovered inches from Julia's nose. The metallic smell of dried blood invaded her nostrils, making her stomach churn violently.

On the floor, Byron's chest heaved with ragged, wet breaths. He forced his head up. His dark eyes, hidden beneath his messy hair, locked onto her. It was the stare of a dying wolf-cornered, hateful, and memorizing the face of its killer.

Julia's hands clamped down on the plastic handles of her suitcases. She squeezed so hard her fingernails dug into the hard plastic, fighting the overwhelming urge to turn and run out the door.

The original host would have snatched the whip and started swinging. She would have laughed while doing it.

But the phantom sensation of Spike's knife nearing her eye paralyzed Julia. Cold sweat broke out across her back, soaking the soft cashmere of her sweater. Her legs trembled slightly.

The thug frowned, his arm still extended. "Miss? Is it too dirty? I can go grab a fresh one from the stables."

At the thug's movement, Byron's muscles locked. He bit down on his lip, bracing his broken body for the inevitable strike.

Julia sucked in a sharp breath, forcing her vocal cords to work. She tilted her chin up, adopting a look of absolute disgust.

"Get that away from me," she snapped, her voice dripping with impatience. "You're ruining the Persian rug."

The thug froze. His hand hung awkwardly in the air.

On the floor, Byron's body twitched. Julia saw a subtle shift in his uninjured eye-a fleeting reaction that almost looked like surprise before it hardened back into a dark, impenetrable glare. She couldn't read the depths of his hatred, but she could guess what was running through his mind. He likely thought this was just another one of her sick, unpredictable games.

Julia looked down at the blood pooling on the marble and visibly recoiled. "Can't you see I'm leaving? Who told you to bring this disgusting mess to the front door?"

The thug lowered the whip, looking lost. "But... the boss said to bring him to you for discipline..."

The word 'discipline' made Julia's heart skip a beat. She raised her voice, letting the spoiled heiress persona take over completely.

"I am not in the mood! Throw him back in his hole and get out of my sight!"

Her tone left no room for argument. The two thugs exchanged a nervous glance. They knew better than to push the crazy daughter when she was throwing a fit.

The first thug grabbed Byron by the collar of his ruined shirt and hoisted him up. Byron let out a suppressed gasp of agony. His right leg dragged uselessly across the floor, the bone clearly broken.

Julia's pupils contracted. The physical reality of his broken leg hit her hard. Guilt and terror warred in her chest.

The thugs dragged Byron down the hallway toward the basement stairs. A thick smear of blood painted the marble behind them.

Just as they reached the corner, Byron turned his head. He looked at Julia one last time. There was no gratitude in his eyes. Only a cold, calculating assessment.

The look pierced right through her.

When they disappeared around the corner, Julia let go of the suitcases. She slumped against the marble pillar, gasping for air as if she had been held underwater. Her heart hammered wildly.

She had changed the plot. She hadn't hit him.

But the blood on the floor proved he was critically injured. If he died, the world line would collapse.

She forced herself to look away from the blood. Survival first. She needed money.

She grabbed the suitcases, pushed open the heavy front doors, and stepped out into the blinding Los Angeles sun. The heat felt like a different universe.

She dragged the bags to the Porsche Cayenne, heaving them into the trunk. She slammed the trunk shut.

She climbed into the driver's seat and hit the ignition. The V8 engine roared to life, a deep, powerful sound that vibrated through the steering wheel.

She cranked the air conditioning to the maximum, shivering as the cold air hit her sweat-dampened skin. She typed the address of the largest luxury pawnshop in Beverly Hills into the GPS.

She slammed her foot on the gas pedal. The SUV shot out of the manor's iron gates.

She watched the massive house shrink in the rearview mirror. But no matter how fast she drove, Byron's blood-soaked, staring face remained burned into her mind. Her hands gripped the leather steering wheel until her knuckles ached.