I sprint across the manicured garden, sneakers crunching against gravel, every step a declaration of war.
The evening air is sharp, wind whipping through my bleached hair. I glance back—just once.
Two shadows move with deadly precision. Dad's loyal men.
I smirk. Amateurs. Too slow. I've got style points on my side.
I leap over a low fountain, water splashing around my feet, narrowly avoiding a decorative statue that probably costs more than most people's cars. *Nice. Very dramatic. This is exactly the kind of entrance history books will write about.*
One guard yells, "Sir! Stop!"
I wave a hand like I'm brushing off a fly. "Not today, soldier! I'm in training for the Olympics of freedom!"
I vault a hedge, landing in the flowerbed with an explosion of roses and tulips. A thorn jabs my arm. I grin anyway. *Worth it.*
The men follow—methodical, careful, trained.
But I'm unpredictable.
I zigzag, double back, duck behind garden sculptures that look like they're judging my life choices. "Catch me if you can!" I shout over my shoulder, heart pounding like a war drum. Best. Escape. Ever.
At the edge of the estate, a wall looms—stone, tall, imposing.
I crouch, scan for handholds, then shove myself up and over. My legs swing. I land on the other side with a soft grunt, roll, spring to my feet.
I brush dirt from my pants, grinning like an idiot. "Ha! Freedom smells like dirt and victory!"
But the footsteps don't stop.
I bolt toward the tree line, weaving through shadows, feet barely touching the ground. A branch whips across my face. I yelp, then laugh. "You can't slow me down with *sticks*, you fools!"
Behind me, lights flicker on at the estate. More voices. More men.
My pulse races.
I duck behind a thick oak, chest heaving, hands gripping my bag like it's the only thing anchoring me to reality.
Okay, next plan: distract, confuse, vanish.
I spot a small shed near the property's edge. Perfect.
I sprint toward it, skid to a stop, throw the door open. Inside: garden tools, rakes leaning like soldiers at attention, a wheelbarrow tipped sideways.
I duck behind it, breathing hard, ears straining.
Outside, shouts echo. Footsteps scatter.
I press myself into the shadows, grinning to myself. They'll never find me. Not tonight. Runaway Groom: Act Three, flawless execution.
Minutes pass.
I peek out from behind the wheelbarrow. The men are searching in circles, calling my name like I'm a lost puppy.
I roll my eyes, whispering to the ceiling. "Honestly, you're terrible at this. Maybe take notes for next time."
The thrill surges through me—danger, freedom, chaos all wrapped into one beautiful, reckless moment.
For the first time all morning, I truly feel alive.
And just like that… the night stretches ahead, infinite, waiting for me to disappear into it.
I burst out of the estate gates, lungs burning, sneakers slapping against pavement.
The city air smells like wet asphalt and exhaust—freedom and danger mixed into one intoxicating hit.
I glance over my shoulder. The men haven't slowed. Loyal. Determined. Deadly serious.
I grin, adrenaline sharpening every sense. Ohhhh, this is going to be fun.
I skid around the first corner, nearly colliding with a trash can. "Excuse me! Coming through! World-class runaway in progress!"
One of the men yells behind me, "Sir! Stop running!"
I laugh, ducking down a narrow alley, shadows swallowing me whole. "Stop? Stop is for losers and boring people. I'm neither!"
I hop over a low fence, landing in someone's front yard, scattering a small dog's midnight stroll. The dog barks. I wave. "Sorry, buddy! Recruit for my fan club later!"
Streetlights flicker above as I run—street to street, corner to corner, everything blurring together into one beautiful, chaotic sprint.
My chest heaves, but the grin never leaves my face. Every step, every jump, every glance over my shoulder is a performance.
"Ohhh, they're slow. Too slow. Come on, Dad's men, try to keep up!"
A voice shouts from behind: "Sir! Don't make this harder than it has to be!"
I spin around mid-stride, smirking. "Harder? Harder is my middle name!"
I dart past a bakery, bump a trash bin, send newspapers flying. One hits a streetlamp, making it swing like it's cheering me on.
I duck another corner, crouch behind a parked car, panting like I just ran a marathon. "Okay… plan: disappear, vanish, become legend. Step one: blend in. Step two: freedom. Step three… survive Dad's wrath tomorrow." I nod to myself. "Easy."
I peek past the car.
Shadows move. Footsteps echo.
Still following.
I groan and roll my eyes skyward. "You're terrible at hide-and-seek."
I sprint again—zigzagging down one street, cutting across another, my own laughter echoing off the walls like a taunt.
"Catch me if you can! Spoiler: You can't! Not tonight!"
Another corner. Another shadow chasing me.
I skid, spin, almost slip on the wet curb—but I recover, hopping into a small park, vaulting over a low fence.
My heart races. My chest heaves.
But the grin? Unstoppable.
*Runaway Groom. Act Four: Keep running. Keep laughing. Keep winning.*
And the chase continues—footsteps, laughter, chaos—the night alive with all of it.
Then I see it.
An alley.
Dark. Narrow. Perfect.
I duck inside, bag bouncing against my back, breath coming in ragged gasps.
The walls close in on both sides—brick, damp, smelling like rain and old garbage.
I press against the wall, chest heaving, listening.
Footsteps approach.
Pause.
Pass by.
I exhale slowly, grin widening. *Made it. Freedom is—*
And then I hear it.
More footsteps.
Closer this time.
Coming from the *other end* of the alley.
My grin falters.
I'm boxed in.
"No, no, no—" I mutter, spinning, looking for an exit, a ladder, a dumpster to climb—
"Sir," a voice says calmly from behind me. "Enough."
I turn.
Three of Dad's men block the entrance. Another two at the exit.
My heart pounds.
But I'm not done yet.
I take a step back, then another, eyes darting for options.
"Come on," I say, forcing a grin. "You really want to drag me back? I'll just run again. Save yourselves the cardio."
One of them steps forward. "Mr. Richard's orders."
"Yeah, well, Mr. Richard can—"
I bolt.
Straight toward the side wall, looking for *anything*—a fire escape, a window, a miracle—
My foot catches.
Something—a pothole, a loose brick, my own stupid luck—
And suddenly I'm falling.
Hard.
Fast.
My leg twists beneath me.
I hear the crack before I feel it.
Then the pain hits—white-hot, blinding, stealing the breath from my lungs.
I hit the ground, gasping, clutching my leg.
"*Shit—*" I grit my teeth, trying to push myself up, but my leg won't cooperate. It buckles. Screams.
The men surround me, but I barely register them.
All I can feel is the pain radiating up my leg, sharp and unrelenting.
One of them crouches beside me. "Sir, are you—"
"Get away from me," I hiss, but it comes out weaker than I want.
My vision blurs.
The alley spins.
And for the first time tonight, the grin is gone.