My room looks like a hotel suite someone raided and never checked out of—clothes draped over the couch, sneakers kicked under the glass table, an untouched stack of expensive books still wrapped in plastic like they're allergic to being opened.
I kick the door shut behind me and throw myself onto the bed, arms spread wide like I'm making snow angels in silk sheets.
"Engaged," I say to the ceiling like it personally orchestrated this betrayal. "Married off like I'm some… some corporate merger. A dowry piece with a trust fund. Unreal."
I roll over, bury my face in the pillow, then sit up two seconds later because lying still feels like surrender. My leg bounces. I grab my phone, thumb hovering over Charlie's number, then drop it again.
What am I even supposed to say? Help, my dad's lost his mind and wants me to marry some guy he handpicked from his secret man-catalog? Yeah, that'll go down real smooth.
I drag myself to the mirror, running a hand through my bleached-copper mess, still tangled from last night's dive. "If I get married now… no clubs, no yacht weekends, no freedom." I lean closer, squinting at my reflection like it might have answers. "No more Ace the Great. No more king of my own world. Just—what? *Husband?* Partner?" I make a face. "*Blegh.*"
I flop onto the chaise with a dramatic sigh that would make Shakespeare proud.
My eyes flick toward the doors, where a faint curl of smoke still drifts from the fireplace downstairs.
The memory of that envelope turning to ash makes me grin. "Smart move, Ethan. Problem solved. If Dad doesn't have a name to shove at me, then it can't happen, right?"
The grin fades.
Because Richard isn't the kind of man who loses games. Ever.
I groan, pressing both palms over my face. "Okay. Think. Plan A: Refuse outright. He'll bulldoze me. Plan B: Pretend to have a girlfriend. Oh wait—I already have too many fake exes to count, and he knows it. Plan C…"
I peek between my fingers.
"…Run away?"
The thought makes me sit up straighter. A little thrill buzzes in my chest, electric and dangerous. "Runaway groom," I whisper, almost laughing at my own joke. "Catch me if you can, Dad."
I stretch out on the chaise, cocky smile creeping back. But under it all, my reflection in the window betrays the tiniest flicker of unease—like maybe, just *maybe*, my joke is about to write itself into reality.
I sink into the armchair by the window, legs folded like a cat plotting world domination, eyes locked on Dad and Sarah downstairs in the sitting room.
They're lounging on the couch like nothing catastrophic was just announced. Like my entire future wasn't just auctioned off over breakfast croissants.
I tap my fingers against my chin, studying them. "Okay… Plan A: Dash out the door the second they leave. Simple. Elegant. Invisible." I pause. "Too obvious? Yeah. Probably obvious."
I lean forward, elbows on knees, watching them like pieces on a chessboard. "Plan B: Bribe one of Dad's men. They've got to have a weakness somewhere, right?" I shake my head. "No. Stubborn, loyal little soldiers. You can't buy loyalty Dad's already purchased. Lesson learned, Mr. Ethan."
I kick off my slippers and pace. "Plan C: Fake an emergency. Collapse dramatically. Call for help. Get wheeled out on a stretcher, slip out the side door." I pause. "Genius! Or… embarrassing. Too much attention. Scratch that."
I stop mid-step and peek back at them. Richard sips his coffee, calm as a mountain. Sarah laughs at something I can't hear, the sound crisp and teasing.
I groan. "Too perfect. Too calm. I need a loophole. A flaw. A *distraction*."
I spin toward my desk, rifling through drawers. Pens, papers, old receipts. "Plan D: Gift the family dog to distract them? No, the dog's loyal to Dad too. *Of course he is.*"
I flop into the chair again, kicking a throw pillow like it personally offended me.
"Why do they have to be so… *competent?*" I mutter. "Why can't Dad's men ever misplace keys or forget to lock doors? Why must the perfect storm be so goddamn *perfect?*"
I watch Dad lean back, arm draped over Sarah's shoulders, laughing at something she whispers. They look… comfortable. *Too* comfortable.
My stomach twists.
Why is he doing this?
The question sits heavy in my chest, refusing to leave.
I mean, arranged marriages are one thing—rich families do it all the time. Merge companies, secure alliances, whatever. But a *guy?* Someone Dad handpicked from his own staff?
Unless…
My eyes narrow, studying them harder.
Is he in debt?
The thought hits like ice water.
Maybe the company's in trouble. Maybe he owes someone powerful, someone who demanded… what? Collateral? A son?
I shake my head. No. That's insane. This isn't some mafia movie.
But then why does he look so *calm?* So unbothered?
If he were desperate, wouldn't he look stressed? Wouldn't there be late-night meetings, hushed phone calls, that tension he always carries when quarterly reports come in bad?
Instead, he's sipping coffee like he just won the lottery.
Sarah laughs again, and he smiles—genuinely smiles—in a way I haven't seen since Mom died.
My jaw tightens.
So if it's not money… then what?
Control? Some twisted idea of what's "best" for me? Punishment for every yacht I've "borrowed," every party I've crashed, every rule I've bent until it snapped?
Or does he actually think this mystery man is *perfect* for me?
The thought makes me want to laugh and scream at the same time.
I don't even know this guy's name. I burned his face before I could see it.
And yet somehow, Dad's already planned our entire future.
My fingers curl into fists.
*No.*
Whatever game he's playing—debt, control, delusion—I'm not a piece he gets to move around his board.
I'm *done* being the obedient son.
I lean back, arms crossed behind my head, eyes still locked on them.
A shiver of excitement runs down my spine.
This is going to be fun.
My smirk returns, sharper now. "Okay, Ethan. You're the Runaway Groom. Act One: survive this house without saying anything truly insane. Act Two: escape the kingdom before Dad arranges the life sentence." I nod to myself. "Simple. Brilliant. Slightly illegal. Totally awesome."
I slouch deeper in my chair, watching Dad sprawled on the couch with Sarah like they're starring in their own rom-com.
They laugh. Pass the coffee back and forth. Whisper like they own the world.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. *Unbelievable. Absolute bliss while I'm trapped up here like Rapunzel. This is criminal.*
Minutes tick by. I shift. Bounce my knee. Scan the room for possibilities.
Ten minutes.
Fifteen.
Half an hour.
I groan dramatically. "How long are they going to pretend the world doesn't exist?"
Richard leans back, arm casually draped over Sarah's shoulders. They're too comfortable. Too smug. Too… *happy*.
My teeth grind together.
This cannot stand.
I swing toward my duffel bag, dumping it onto the chaise. Clothes, wallet, ID, phone… essentials. I pack with the precision of someone who's been plotting escapes since he learned to walk.
"Alright, Ethan. Showtime," I whisper, crouching by the window.
The frame is low enough to step through, wide enough for a dramatic exit. "Nothing says rebellion like a leap through open air."
I pause, glancing back one more time.
Richard and Sarah are still lost in their perfect little bubble.
*Perfect.*
I roll my eyes. *They think they own this house. Time to remind them I exist.*
I hoist myself through the window, the cool evening air brushing against my skin. I land on the garden path below with a quiet grunt—well, *quiet-ish*. The gravel crunches just enough to make me wince.
"Oh, that sound," I mutter, brushing dust from my jeans. "Perfectly subtle. Totally unnoticed."
Somewhere upstairs, I imagine the faint click of Dad's head turning toward the noise.
*Not fast enough, old man. Not fast enough.*
I crouch low, bag on my back, scanning the perimeter.
The estate stretches on all sides—hedges, fountains, walls—but I know every exit point like a map etched into my brain.
I grin. "Step One: disappear. Step Two: freedom. Step Three: figure out exactly how to make Dad regret ever planning this."
And then—
I hear it.
A faint shuffle behind me. A shadow moves along the garden wall.
One of Dad's men, eyes narrowed, walking the perimeter like he's been *expecting* someone to test him.
I freeze for half a second.
Then I laugh under my breath. "*Ohhhh,* perfect. The chase begins. Just the way I like it."
I dart toward the far gate, bag bouncing against my back, heart pounding with giddy adrenaline.
*Runaway Groom—Act Two: outrun Dad's army without losing style points.*
The gate looms ahead. Freedom within reach.
Behind me, I hear footsteps quicken.
A shout.
"Stop him!"
My grin widens.
"Catch me if you can!"
For one glorious second, the garden is dead quiet.Then every light in the estate snaps on at once like the house itself just woke up pissed.
I sprint into the dark, laughing like a maniac.
Runaway Groom: officially on the run.
Let's see how long it takes my future husband to realize the wedding's already off.