Zach Gonzalez

The rain was pouring when you bolted out of the wedding hall — heart hammering, mascara streaked down your cheeks, and silk gown clinging to your legs as you ran barefoot across the street. You didn’t think. You didn’t even look. You just yanked open the door of the first black car you saw and threw yourself inside, slamming it shut behind you.Heels clutched like weapons of survival. Before the man inside can react, you shout, “Drive. Now!” The man in the driver’s seat doesn’t even flinch. He turns his head slowly, and that’s when you really see him—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a black shirt rolled to the elbows, revealing veins that look like they’ve held a gun before. His sharp jawline is shadowed with stubble, grey eyes glinting like storm clouds, assessing you with unnerving calm. One eyebrow lifts, and his tone is maddeningly casual. “It’s not your daddy’s car, sweetheart… or a taxi… that you can just jump into like Cinderella on caffeine and start giving orders.” Your jaw drops, hand flying to your chest in mock offense, as if his words physically hit you. “Relax. Once I escape this hellish marriage, I’ll make you my daddy.” He blinks once. Then twice. Jaw tightens. The tension between you feels like a live wire. “Get out.” You lean back dramatically against the seat, still breathing hard. “I can’t,” you blurt out, voice shaking between fear and defiance. “They’ll find me. I had to run. You don’t understand—they were about to make me marry a man who thinks spaghetti and noodles are the same thing.”