Chapter Three: Escape
1003 Words
In a way, this is everything I ever worked for.
This could be considered a dream come true: Mr. Valentine, seeking me out. Out of so many girls, he’s asking to see me. This is hundreds, maybe thousands of people’s dream.
And some small, stubborn part of me is ready for it. Mr. Valentine—my new husband. What woman could turn that down?
Me. I’m that kind of woman.
All I can think about is how no amount of digital retouching can fix my dripping hair or melted eyeliner. They’ve already gotten dozens of pictures.
I refuse the assistant’s handkerchief. “Sorry, no.”
I push past her.
I’m on the hundredth floor. The hall behind the cameramen is polished wood and lined with shut doors. All the money people work here—no designers, no photographers. All the fun is farther up or farther down the building.
I catch the faint scent of freshly brewed lattes wafting from the coffee bar. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or maybe I’m hallucinating, but I swear I can hear the sound of a ping-pong ball bouncing off the table in the distance.
One hundred floors.
I make a beeline for the elevator at the end of the hall, my socks still wet from The Water Bottle Incident. But then it hits me: I’m going to get trapped in an elevator.
With the paparazzi.
No. No way. Not me.
“Miss! Is it true you proposed to Mr. Valentine?”
“When’s the wedding?”
“BeBe, when were you going to tell us?”
Not happening.
I take a sharp right, past the coffee bar and the frowning barista, past two men in checkered shirts playing an aggressively competitive game of ping-pong, past oversized prints of models on Vogue.
Out the emergency exit.
Suddenly, I’m glad I took my heels off. I peek through the door at the endless spiral staircase. It’s the only part of this office that doesn’t ooze luxury. Even a light dares to flicker.
Behind me, voices thunder.
“Why are you running?”
“What do you have to hide?”
My soaked socks make an undignified slop as I race down the stairs. And it is a race. I took track and field in high school, and I’m sprinting the first few flights, my mouth dry and my chest heaving like a fish out of water.
Behind me, there’s muffled cursing, some laughter, but mostly cursing.
They didn’t expect me to run.
Eventually, I’m forced to slow down. Ninety-seven floors to go.
My heart pounds. At any moment, the paparazzi could take the elevator to a lower level and cut me off. I’m trapped. Cooked. Toast.
I collapse onto one of the stairs—polished, dusted, and mopped to perfection—and clutch the empty ring box in my hand. My brain scrambles to make sense of it all.
How did this happen? How did I let myself get swept into a blind, stupid rage?
I was supposed to see my family tonight. Go back to the horrible manor from whence I came. Yeah, right.
It’s Valentine’s Day. Or, more like Mr. Valentine’s Day.
Where’s my chocolate? My fake rose? My stupid, happy ending?
Instead, I’m sitting here, soaked and humiliated.
I clench the ring box tighter. None of it matters. The paparazzi might cut me off, but I’m going to walk down every single step.
By the time I reach the base floor, I can barely stand.
My back is hunched, my chest heaving, and my brain is blank except for one thought: Ow, my ribs.
At least the paparazzi didn’t cut me off. But that itch in the back of my head won’t go away.
Why would they give up on such a big headline?
Why didn’t I just tell them they were wrong?
I don’t know. Maybe I left my brain back in Jason’s office.
Don’t think. It’s almost over.
All I have to do is cross the first floor, walk across the gleaming white marble, and get to the parking garage. My car, my apartment, and my sanity are all waiting for me.
I pass giant sculptures—modern, twisty, and ridiculous. The security guards don’t even glance my way.
I creep into the tunnel that leads to the parking garage. More stairs. After five years here, I still don’t have a parking spot, so I always end up at the top of the garage.
Every muscle in my body protests as I climb. My feet throb, and I wonder if I even have the strength to press the gas pedal when I finally reach my car.
At last, I make it to the top of the parking deck. The setting sun gleams off the hood of my white convertible—Pearl. My pride.
My freedom.
She got me out of Rosehall all those years ago. She’ll get me out of this.
I fumble with my keys, imagining a quiet life in Mexico, until I finally slip into the driver’s seat and let out a sigh of relief.
All my muscles go jelly. I melt into the leather seat, my eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. A lump springs to my throat, but I swallow it back.
I’m almost there.
The passenger door clicks.
My eyes snap open.
Jack Valentine is in my car.
His tailored suit cuts sharp, clean lines, his black tie simple and devilish. He smells divine—a mix of deep musk, a hint of floral, and just enough spice to leave you dizzy.
Up close, he’s even more gorgeous. His perfect tan, unruly hair, and just the right amount of stubble are maddening.
He tilts his head, a strand of thick, silk-soft hair falling into his eye. I hate how my heart flutters, hate that my lungs expand to take in more of his scent.
I hate him.
He crooks an eyebrow, his voice low and smooth. “You really thought I’d let my fiancée just walk away?”
- Writer
