Savage Reborn: Dumped Him To Marry The Billionaire

Escape

The world dissolved into a frenzy of flashing lights and screaming voices.

"Mr. Hale! Are you stealing Lysander Thorne's fiancée?"

"Vespera! Look here! Give us a smile!"

Cyprian didn't give them a smile. He gave them a shoulder. He shielded me from the blinding strobes, his body a solid, warm wall against the chaos. His arm never left my waist, his grip iron-tight, guiding me through the crushing mob of reporters.

"Move," he commanded. He didn't shout, but the authority in his voice parted the sea of bodies better than a scream ever could.

"Vespera! Get back here!"

Lysander’s voice cut through the din, shrill and desperate. I glanced back over Cyprian’s arm. Lysander was shoving his way through a knot of photographers, his face twisted into a mask of ugly entitlement. He reached out, his fingers inches from my flowing red sleeve.

"You belong to me!" he spat, lunging.

A shadow moved.

Oryn, the silent giant, stepped between us. He didn't hit Lysander. He didn't have to. He simply occupied the space where Lysander wanted to be, crossing his massive arms over a chest wide enough to block a doorway.

Lysander slammed into Oryn like a bird hitting a windshield. He bounced off, stumbling back into a waiter carrying a tray of champagne flutes.

Crash.

Glass shattered. Lysander slipped on the wet floor, going down in a heap of expensive tuxedo and humiliation.

"Go," Cyprian growled in my ear.

He hustled me out the side exit. The cool night air hit my flushed skin, a stark contrast to the suffocating heat of the ballroom. A sleek, armored limousine idled at the curb, black as a hearse and twice as intimidating.

Oryn opened the door. Cyprian shoved me inside—not roughly, but with zero ceremony—and climbed in after me.

The heavy door slammed shut, sealing us in soundproof silence.

The lock clicked.

The car began to move before I had even settled into the leather seat. I smoothed the red silk of my dress, my heart still hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

I looked at Cyprian.

The gallant savior from the ballroom was gone. In his place sat a man who looked ready to commit murder.

He stared at me from the opposite seat, his legs spread, his hands resting loosely on his knees. The shadows of the passing streetlights sliced across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw and the dangerous intelligence in his eyes.

"Explain," he said. His voice was low, vibrating with restrained violence. "Now. Before I toss you out of this moving car."

I didn't flinch. I couldn't afford to. "I told you, Mr. Hale. I'm the venom."

"You're a liability," he countered, leaning forward. "You just humiliated one of the most powerful families in Neo-Veridia on live television. And you dragged me into the blast radius. Why?"

"Because you were the only one who wouldn't blink," I said.

I reached into my clutch.

Cyprian tensed. His eyes tracked my hand, assessing the threat. If I had pulled a gun, I don't think he would have been surprised.

I pulled out the USB drive.

"Thorne Enterprises is insolvent," I said, placing the small silver drive on the leather console between us. "Lysander has been cooking the books for eighteen months to hide the losses from the failed lithium venture in the South."

Cyprian looked at the drive, but didn't touch it. "Rumors. Thorne posts record profits."

"Fake profits," I said. "Paper gains based on shell companies that don't exist. I know because I created them."

The silence stretched, thick and heavy.

"I wrote the code that shuffles the debt every quarter so the auditors can't find it," I continued, my voice steady. "I designed the algorithm that inflates the user engagement metrics for their flagship app. I built his empire on a foundation of sand and lies."

I pointed to the drive. "That drive contains the real Q3 data. The unedited ledgers. If you release this tomorrow morning, Thorne stock won't just dip. It will flatline."

Cyprian picked up the drive. He turned it over in his scarred fingers, the metal glinting in the dim light.

"Why give this to me?" he asked, his gaze snapping back to mine. "Why not the SEC? Why not the press?"

"Because the press can be bought. And the SEC takes too long." I leaned back, meeting his stare. "I don't want Lysander fined. I want him ruined. And you're the only one who hates him as much as I do."

Cyprian studied me. He was looking for the crack in the mask, the tremor of deception.

He wouldn't find it. I had died for this truth.

"You said you wanted protection," he said slowly. "You want my name."

"I want autonomy. Marriage to you gives me legal immunity from the Thornes. They can't touch my trust fund if I'm a Hale. In exchange, I give you Thorne Enterprises on a silver platter."

He looked out the window. His reflection ghosted against the dark glass—the sharp jaw, the storm-grey eyes, and the tattoo on his neck.

The Thornless Rose.

In my past life, that tattoo had been a mystery. Now, I knew it was a symbol of a vengeance he had been nursing for a decade. A vengeance against the very system Lysander represented.

He looked back at me. The suspicion in his eyes hadn't vanished, but something else had joined it. Respect. Or perhaps, recognition. He saw the monster in me because it recognized the monster in him.

He unlocked his phone.

"Oryn," he said into the speaker, his eyes never leaving my face. "Call the lawyer. Wake him up."

My breath hitched.

"We’re getting married tonight."