My Wedding Dress Was Still On When His Best Man Kissed Me

The Aston Martin surged forward with a violent roar, throwing me hard against the leather seat.

Through the tinted rear window, Damien stood frozen on the asphalt for half a second before lunging after us. His tailored jacket flared out, his mouth twisted in a furious shout that the engine drowned out completely. Adrian didn't even tap the brakes. He swung the wheel hard, tires screaming against the stone driveway as we blew through the church gates and rocketed onto the open road.

The cabin of the sports car was built for speed, not fifty yards of French silk and petticoats.

My skirt exploded over the console, swallowing the cup holders and burying the gearshift under a mountain of white organza. Adrian shoved a thick wave of tulle away from his right hand with a sharp flick of his wrist, shifting into fourth gear without taking his eyes off the road.

"You're taking up half my dashboard," he said, his voice completely level despite doing eighty miles an hour in a forty-five zone.

"Then pull over and let me walk," I muttered, my hands shaking against my knees.

"Not a chance."

The phone in my lap buzzed, buzzing with such force against the silk that it sounded like an electric current. The caller ID flashed *Damien*.

I stared at the glowing screen. For four years, I had jumped every single time that name appeared. If he called during a meeting, I answered. If he called at three in the morning about a misplaced pitch deck, I answered.

I reached down and hit the red button.

The screen went black. A second later, it lit up again with his incoming call.

I hit the red button a second time. No hesitation. No frantic texts asking how he could do this to me. No begging for an explanation. I simply cut the line.

I tried to turn toward the window to get air, but something jerked violently at the crown of my head. The long cathedral veil had caught on the door latch and twisted itself into the passenger seatbelt mechanism.

The fabric pulled tight, pinning my neck at an awkward, painful angle against the headrest.

"Dammit," I hissed, reaching up with both hands to rip the pins out.

The intricate wire combs were tangled deep in the updo the stylist had spent two hours perfecting. Every yank pulled my scalp, sending sharp pulses of pain down my temples. The claustrophobia of the tight car, the suffocating dress, and the lingering image of Sienna on that desk hit me all at once.

I grabbed a fistful of lace and pulled with everything I had, determined to tear it in half.

"Stop," Adrian said.

A firm, warm hand wrapped around my wrist, cutting off my movement.

"Let go of it, Emma," he commanded softly. "You're going to tear your own hair out."

"I don't care," I choked out, fighting his grip. "I want it off. I want all of this off."

"Hold still."

He slowed the car as we hit a long, straight stretch of the parkway, steering with his left hand while keeping his right hand steady on my wrist until I released the lace. Once I stopped fighting, he let go and reached behind my head.

His fingers were surprisingly gentle against my scalp. He didn't rush, working through the heavy cluster of metal pins tucked near the base of my skull. With each pin he slid out, the painful pressure eased. He dropped the silver clips onto the carbon-fiber console one by one, the tiny metallic clinks cutting through the hum of the engine.

"One more," he murmured.

Adrian leaned closer to reach the final comb tucked behind my left ear. The sudden proximity hit me like a physical shock. He was close enough that I could see the flecks of slate in his gray eyes, close enough that the clean scent of cedar and cold rain completely wiped away the faint memory of Damien’s cologne.

His knuckles grazed the skin behind my ear.

Neither of us moved for a beat. The space between us in the low cockpit shrank to nothing. His gaze dropped to my lips for a fraction of a second before lifting back to meet my eyes.

He pulled the comb free.

With a smooth sweep of his arm, he drew the heavy veil away from my hair and tossed it into the narrow back seat like a discarded rag. My dark hair fell around my shoulders, messy and freed from the rigid pins.

I sank back against the seat, my chest rising and falling rapidly. "Thanks."

"Don't ruin your own hair over him," Adrian replied, his eyes returning to the road as he accelerated. "He isn't worth the scalp damage."

Before I could answer, my phone vibrated in my lap with a text alert.

I picked it up.

*Damien: Stop making a scene. Come back before people notice.*

I stared at the screen, reading the words twice to make sure my eyes weren't playing tricks on me. *Before people notice.* Not an apology. Not an ounce of shame. Just pure, unadulterated concern for his public standing and the investors sitting in the pews.

A dry sound tore out of my throat.

It started as a bitter laugh, an incredulous bark of humor at the sheer madness of it all. But the laugh broke halfway through, twisting into a sudden, jagged sob. The tears I had been holding back since opening that lounge door finally spilled over, hot and heavy against my cheeks, ruining whatever remained of my makeup.

I covered my face with one hand, pressing the heel of my palm against my eyes. I hated that I was crying. I hated that my body was reacting to the betrayal even while my mind was entirely done with him.

Adrian didn't reach over with useless tissue paper. He didn't offer empty platitudes or tell me that everything was going to be fine.

Instead, his own phone began to ring on the dashboard. The screen showed Damien’s name, followed immediately by an incoming call from a board member.

Adrian reached out, flipped the side switch to silent without even looking at the screen, and tossed the device into the door pocket.

"You don't owe him a graceful exit," Adrian said, his voice hard as iron. "Cry if you need to. But don't you dare feel guilty for leaving him to clean up his own mess."

The bluntness of his words cut right through the panic. I lowered my hand and wiped my face with the back of my wrist, breathing in the cold air blowing from the vents.

"Why did you do it?" I asked, turning my head to look at his sharp profile. "You're supposed to be his best man. You were standing in his corner."

"I was invited to keep up appearances for the board, just like everyone else," Adrian said, his grip tightening slightly on the leather-wrapped steering wheel. "And as for why I pulled out of that lot?"

He glanced sideways at me, a dangerous, unapologetic spark in his gray eyes.

"Because you said drive."

I held his gaze, realizing for the first time that Adrian Vale didn't follow rules he hadn't written himself. He hadn't rescued me out of pity. He had acted because I gave the order, and he had taken the opening without a second thought.

"Look back," Adrian said, nodding toward the side mirror.

I leaned forward and checked the glass. Two dark SUVs were trailing three car lengths behind us, their grilles fitted with media plates. Long camera lenses were clearly visible through the passenger windows.

"Apex Capital’s PR wing or the business tabloids?" I asked, my voice steadying.

"Both," Adrian replied. "Word travels fast when the bride runs out the side door and the groom is left yelling in an empty parking lot."

He flicked the turn signal, smoothly shifting across three lanes of traffic toward the highway interchange.

"We have about ten minutes before they coordinate and try to box us in," Adrian said, checking the navigation screen. "Hotel, airport, or somewhere nobody will think to look?"

I looked down at the massive white gown covering my lap, then at the platinum ring resting in my palm. The life I had built for four years was completely dead, burned to ash in a church side room.

I looked up at the open highway stretching out ahead of us.

"Anywhere he can't order me back from."