The Silent Bride's Dangerous Billionaire Escape

The door thudded shut, sealing them inside a vacuum of silence and leather. The tinted windows turned the city lights into blurred streaks of gray.

Constantine didn't look at Gracelyn. He tapped a button, and the partition between them and the driver slid up with a soft whir. He picked up a tablet, his thumb scrolling through a document. He looked completely unaffected, as if kidnapping a woman from a restaurant was a standard Tuesday evening activity.

Gracelyn sat on the edge of the seat, her hands clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles were white. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a cold, shaking clarity. She had escaped Preston, but she was now in the hands of a man who ate companies for breakfast.

She needed to secure her position. She couldn't just be a damsel. She had to be an asset.

Gracelyn took a deep breath. Her throat felt rusty, tight. The idea of speaking, of forcing sound past the lock in her throat, was nauseating. But this was too important for the slow pace of typing.

She pulled out her phone, her fingers flying across the screen. She opened a notes app and typed, her thumb hitting the glass with frantic taps.

I need a husband.

The words were simple, stark. She held the phone out to him.

Constantine's finger paused on the screen. He didn't look up immediately. He finished reading the paragraph, then slowly turned his head. His eyes were unreadable.

"Reason," he said. One word. Flat.

Gracelyn fumbled for her clutch, her fingers shaking as she typed again. She laid out the information she had memorized from the encrypted board minutes she had intercepted last week. She shoved the phone toward him.

I can get you the proxy votes from the Pierce family. Georgina Pierce is holding out to force a marriage alliance. I know where she hides her leverage. I can give it to you. In exchange, I need protection.

Constantine took the phone. He read it, his expression unchanging. Then he looked at Gracelyn. There was a flicker of something in his eyes-amusement? Respect?

"I don't need the Pierce votes," he said, handing the phone back. "I already have the majority."

Gracelyn's stomach dropped. She had miscalculated.

He leaned forward, invading her personal space. The smell of cedar wrapped around her again. "However," he said softly, "I do need a wife. The board is restless. They want stability. They want a family man."

He looked Gracelyn over, assessing her like she was a piece of real estate. "You're quiet. You're desperate. And you clearly have skills that go beyond spilling water."

He tapped the partition. "The airstrip."

The car swerved, making a sharp U-turn.

Gracelyn's pulse skyrocketed. An airstrip? Now?

"Wait," she tried to mouth, but the word got stuck.

"You wanted a husband," Constantine said, returning to his tablet. "You have ten minutes to change your mind."

They arrived not at a public airport, but a private hangar where a sleek Gulfstream jet waited, its engines humming. Marcus was already there, standing beside a severe-looking woman with a briefcase. There was no line. No waiting. The woman was a judge, flown in from a state with no waiting period, holding a clipboard.

The ceremony was a blur. The scent of jet fuel filled the air. The polished concrete floor was cold beneath Gracelyn's thin soles. It was the least romantic moment of her life, and yet, when Constantine took her hand to slide a plain gold band onto her finger, a jolt of electricity shot up her arm. His hand was warm, dry, and terrifyingly large.

"I do," he said. His voice was steady. A business transaction.

"I do," Gracelyn whispered, the sound swallowed by the cavernous space.

They signed the papers. Gracelyn Montgomery-Durham. The ink looked wet and heavy.

They walked back out onto the tarmac. The night air felt different now. Heavier.

Constantine's phone rang. He pulled it out, frowning. He turned away from Gracelyn, taking a few steps toward the jet's stairs to answer. "Durham. Speak."

This was it.

He was distracted. Marcus was talking to the pilot. The car door was still closed.

Gracelyn didn't want to be his wife. She just needed the paper. The certificate was her shield against her father. She didn't need the man attached to it.

She pretended to adjust her shoe. She crouched down. Then, using the cover of a baggage cart, Gracelyn moved.

She slipped sideways, toward the employee entrance of the hangar fifty yards away. She moved fast, keeping her head down. Gracelyn reached into her bag and clicked the button on the small, black device she had built from spare radio parts-a localized signal jammer.

The security camera above the entrance flickered and died.

Gracelyn kicked off her heels. She couldn't run in them. She left them on the concrete and sprinted in her stocking feet, the cold grit of the tarmac biting into her soles. She slipped through the door and vanished into the labyrinthine corridors of the private terminal.

Back on the tarmac, Constantine ended the call. He turned around.

The space beside him was empty.

Marcus swore. "Sir, she's gone. The cameras are down. Static."

Constantine looked at the spot where Gracelyn had been standing. He saw the high heels abandoned on the pavement. He walked over and picked one up. He turned it over in his hand, looking at the scuffed sole.

He didn't look angry. The corner of his mouth ticked up.

"Shall we lock down the block?" Marcus asked, hand on his earpiece.

"No," Constantine said. He tossed the shoe into the back of the car. "Let her run. She thinks that piece of paper is a shield. She doesn't realize it's a leash."

He got into the car and tapped the screen on the dashboard. A red dot was blinking on the map, moving rapidly south under 7th Avenue.

"She's on the 1 Train," Constantine said calmly. "Pick her up at Christopher Street. Bring her home."