My Runaway Groom's Billionaire Cousin

The ballroom at The Pierre was a golden cage. Crystal chandeliers, thousands of white roses, and enough champagne to drown a navy.

Blaire stood in the bridal suite bathroom, staring at herself.

Her mother, Eleanor, stood behind her. She wasn't hugging her. She was fixing a stray curl on her head.

"You look pale," she criticized. "Pinch your cheeks. We need color."

"Mom," Blaire said, her voice flat. "Jeffery left me."

"And Declan saved us," her mother snapped. "Do you have any idea how lucky we are? The Singleton capital injection is already pending. Your father is breathing for the first time in months."

"I'm not a business asset, Mom. I'm your daughter."

Eleanor paused. For a second, Blaire thought she might soften.

"You are an English," her mother said firmly. "Act like it. Now go out there and make your husband happy."

She turned and left.

Blaire let out a shaky breath. She grabbed her red lipstick-her war paint-and applied a fresh coat. She looked like a killer. Good.

She walked back out. Declan was waiting near the entrance. He was surrounded by board members, holding a tumbler of scotch. He looked relaxed. Powerful.

Blaire walked toward him.

Before she reached him, a woman intercepted him.

Fiona Witt.

She was wearing a silver dress that was barely legal. She was beautiful, rich, and had been trying to claw her way into Declan's bed for three years.

She placed a hand on Declan's forearm. She leaned in close, her chest brushing his arm.

"Declan," she purred. "What a... surprise today was. You, playing the hero? It's so unlike you."

Blaire stopped. A knot of jealousy tightened in her stomach. Not because she wanted Declan, but because Fiona was disrespecting her. Disrespecting her position.

She started to turn away. She didn't want to deal with this.

Declan's hand shot out.

He didn't look at her, but he caught her wrist as she tried to pass. His grip was iron.

He yanked her to his side. His arm went around her waist, clamping her against his hip.

"Fiona," Declan said, his voice bored. He used his free hand to peel Fiona's fingers off his sleeve like she was a piece of lint. "Have you met my wife?"

Fiona's smile faltered.

"Blaire," she said, her tone dripping with acid. "Congrats. Though I hear second choices are... disappointing."

"Careful," Declan said. His voice dropped. It wasn't loud, but it was lethal. "You are speaking to Mrs. Singleton. If you disrespect her, you disrespect me. And you know what happens to people who disrespect me."

Fiona went pale. She swallowed hard, took a step back, and disappeared into the crowd.

Blaire looked up at Declan, shocked.

He looked down at her. "Don't wander off," he muttered. "You're my shield against these vultures."

"Is that all I am?" she asked.

"For now."

The DJ's voice boomed. "Ladies and gentlemen, please clear the floor for Mr. and Mrs. Singleton's first dance!"

Declan took her glass of champagne and set it on a passing tray.

"Showtime," he said.

He led her to the center of the floor. He placed one hand on her waist and took her other hand.

The music started. A classic waltz.

Declan moved with surprising grace. He led her effortlessly, his body guiding hers.

His hand on her back was hot. His fingers splayed wide, touching bare skin. Every time he pulled her closer, she felt the hardness of his chest.

"You're tense," he murmured.

"I'm dancing with the enemy," she replied.

"I'm not your enemy, Blaire. I'm your savior."

"You're an opportunist."

"Same thing."

She tried to step out of rhythm, just to annoy him. To prove she had some control.

He corrected her instantly. He spun her out and yanked her back in, dipping her low.

Her hair swept the floor. His face was inches from hers.

"In the boardroom, you can argue," he whispered, his eyes locked on her lips. "In the bedroom, you can fight. But on the dance floor? You follow me."

Her breath hitched. The double entendre hung in the air, heavy and thick.

He pulled her upright.

Barrett appeared at the edge of the dance floor as the song ended. He looked anxious.

"Declan," Barrett started. "About the restructuring of the Asian division..."

Declan didn't even look at him.

"Not tonight, Barrett," Declan said coldly. "It's my wedding night. I'm not discussing business."

"But-"

"Go away," Declan said.

Barrett retreated.

Blaire stared at Declan. He had just dismissed her brother-the CEO-like a servant. And strangely... she liked it. Barrett had been weak today. Declan was strong.

"Let's go," Declan said abruptly.

"The cake hasn't been cut," she said.

"I don't care about the cake."

He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the exit. The crowd cheered, thinking they were eager lovers rushing off to consummate the marriage.

They reached the elevators.

Declan didn't wait. He swept her up into his arms, bridal style.

"Declan!" she shrieked, grabbing his neck instinctively.

"Shut up," he grunted, carrying her into the elevator.

The doors closed. The noise of the party vanished.

It was just them. In a small metal box.

She could feel his heart beating against her side. It was steady. Slow.

"Put me down," she said.

"Save your energy," he said, looking straight ahead at the floor numbers. "It's going to be a long night."

Her stomach did a flip.

"What does that mean?" she whispered.

He didn't answer.

The elevator opened to the private garage. His driver was waiting.

They got in. The car pulled out, heading toward Central Park West. Toward his fortress. Toward the unknown.