The Ice Prince's Runaway Fiancée

Ellie POV:

I wiped down the countertop of the glass terrarium, the afternoon light catching dust motes dancing in the air. Silence. Peace. My phone screen lit up on the counter. A message from my fiancé, Dick: "See you next week." I stared at the words for two seconds, then turned the phone over.

In my past life, I'd drawn too much unwanted attention. So I abandoned those identities and built this sanctuary with my own hands—my flower shop in this sprawling city.

A shipment of rare plants sat stacked by the back door. Among them, one pot wrapped in black plastic stood apart from the others—"Devil's Thorn." Its black spines glinted like wet needles under the light.

The care notes said its sap contained a rare neurotoxin. Fast-acting. Paralytic. Lethal in the wrong dose. The supplier's email had warned me to handle it with extreme care.

I pulled on thick leather gloves and lifted the heavy pot, carrying it toward the separate greenhouse.

A stray cat darted out from the alley and bumped against my ankle.

I stumbled. The pot tilted. I lunged to steady it, and a thorn slipped through the seam of my glove, piercing my fingertip.

A sharp sting. I yanked my hand back. A tiny red dot welled up on my fingertip. I pressed my thumb against it and told myself it was nothing.

I was wrong.

About five minutes later, my fingers went numb in mid-air as I was trimming a stem. The shears clattered to the floor. I bent to pick them up, and the numbness swept up my arm like a cold tide, flooding my chest, my throat, my legs.

Panic seized my heart. I opened my mouth to scream, and nothing came out.

My legs gave way, and I crumpled behind the counter. My body had betrayed me in the same instant—a cage of flesh, with my mind trapped inside, screaming silently and perfectly awake. The only thing I could move were my eyes.

Julien POV:

An hour ago, I'd been sitting in the back of a Cadillac, my phone gripped so tight the screen threatened to crack.

"Say that again," I said to the voice on the other end, my tone flat.

"She's in a flower shop in the city, Mr. Leon." The private investigator's voice trembled. "The address is being sent to your phone. We have eyes on the building. She hasn't left."

Ellie Spencer. The woman who signed the marriage contract to become my fiancée, cashed the check, and vanished on the very morning she was supposed to meet my grandmother. That woman's selfish disappearance had put the one person in this family who loved me without condition into a cardiac ICU.

I'd gotten the call at noon: Julien, your grandmother is in critical care. She's been calling for Ellie.

And Ellie wasn't there.

"Anger" wasn't a strong enough word. I buried my fear deep in the fire, so hot it blurred my vision. Every mile, every red light, ticked down the final moments of someone I loved.

"You ran," I said to the empty seat beside me, picturing a face I'd only seen in photographs. "Now I'm dragging you back."

The car stopped. I shoved the door open, crossed the pavement in long strides, and slammed my palm against the glass door of the flower shop—"Petal & Stem"—hard enough that it crashed against the wall.

Ellie POV:

The door burst open, the glass frame hitting the wall with a deafening crack.

A tall man filled the doorway, wearing a perfectly tailored black suit, moving with the predatory grace of a beast. His eyes—sharp, ice-blue, blazing with fury—swept the empty shop.

At first, he didn't see me. I was crumpled behind the counter, hidden from sight, and for a fleeting second, I hoped he would just turn and leave.

His gaze traveled across the room, over the counter, and stopped.

On me.

The fire in those cold eyes ignited—fury mingling with a twisted kind of relief.

He cleared the counter in two strides, his shadow swallowing me whole. "Finally found you," he growled, his voice low and rough, packed with barely contained rage.

I tried to tell him he had the wrong person. All that came out of my throat was a pathetic gurgle.

He took it as defiant silence. A cruel smirk curved his lips. "Still playing games?" He crouched, one hand gripping my chin, forcing my head up.

"You signed the contract. You took the money. You ran." Each word landed like a slap. "You thought I wouldn't find you?"

I couldn't move. I couldn't speak. I could only stare up at him as fear flooded through me. He wasn't just looking for the wrong woman—he was fighting the wrong battle, and I was trapped in the middle, my body obeying nothing.

"Get up," he ordered.

I didn't move—couldn't—and his brow furrowed. He grabbed my arm and hauled me off the floor like a weightless rag doll.

My head lolled back, my body limp in his grip, a doll without bones.

He paused, holding me mid-air, and for the first time, genuine confusion flickered across his face.

"Playing dead won't save you," he muttered.