The wind roared into the cabin, a violent beast tearing at her veil.
Francesca didn't look down. She didn't look back. She just leaned into the void.
She tumbled out of the moving car.
The impact was a sledgehammer to her side.
She hit the asphalt. Hard.
The world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of pain and gray sky. She rolled, her body a ragdoll. The expensive lace of her dress shredded instantly, grinding into the gravel. Her skin tore. Her shoulder slammed into the earth.
She didn't stop rolling until she hit the ditch.
The smell of wet dirt and pine needles filled her nose.
For a second, she just lay there. Stunned. Every inch of her body screamed.
Then came the sound.
Screech.
Tires locking up on pavement. The Lincoln had stopped. The driver must have seen the door sensor trigger.
"She jumped! The crazy bitch jumped!" A voice yelled. Rough. Angry.
Francesca forced her eyes open. The world was spinning, tilting on a chaotic axis.
Move. You have to move.
She dragged herself up. Her left ankle flared with white-hot agony. Broken? Sprained? She didn't care.
She crawled into the thick brush. The thorns of the blackberry bushes snagged her dress, tearing at her hair. She left shreds of white silk on the thorns like surrender flags.
"Check the ditch!"
Heavy footsteps crunched on the gravel.
Francesca bit her lip to stop a scream. She pulled herself deeper into the woods, dragging her useless leg. The drug was working faster now, aided by the adrenaline. Her vision was tunneling, the edges turning black.
She had to reach the old service road. She knew this area. Sort of.
She scrambled over a fallen log, her breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps.
"I see blood!"
The beam of a flashlight cut through the twilight, sweeping over the leaves just inches from her head.
Francesca froze. She pressed her face into the dirt. She became a stone. A shadow.
"She can't have gone far. Fan out."
The footsteps moved away, deeper into the brush to her left.
Francesca pushed herself up. She kicked off her remaining high heel. Barefoot.
She ran.
It wasn't a run. It was a limp, a stumble, a desperate lurch forward. The forest floor was cruel-sharp rocks, pine cones, hidden roots. They sliced her feet, but the pain was distant, muted by the terror of being taken back to that car.
She broke through the tree line.
A road.
Not the private drive. The public highway.
She fell to her knees on the shoulder. Her lungs burned. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Headlights.
Twin beams cut through the gloom, coming around the bend.
A car. A regular car. Not a limo.
Francesca didn't think. She didn't weigh the risks.
She scrambled to her feet, swaying like a drunkard. She stumbled into the middle of the lane.
She waved her arms. A ghostly, tattered figure in a blood-stained wedding dress.
"Help!" Her voice was a croak. "Help me!"
The car didn't slow down at first.
Francesca stood her ground. She closed her eyes, bracing for impact. Better to be hit than taken.
Screech.
The car swerved, tires biting into the pavement. It came to a halt ten feet from her. A black Ford sedan. Ordinary. Dusty.
The driver's side window rolled down.
A man.
He wore a baseball cap pulled low. His face was in shadow, but she saw the sharp line of his jaw. He looked... annoyed.
Cooper Ortega stared at the woman in front of his car.
She looked like she had crawled out of a horror movie. Dress in ribbons. Blood smearing her cheek. One eye swollen.
And she was terrifyingly beautiful.
"Get in," he said. His voice was deep, calm. No panic.
Francesca didn't move. She stared at him, her chest heaving. "Please... they're chasing me."
"I know," Cooper said. He looked in his rearview mirror. He could see the flashlights bobbing in the woods behind her. His security team. The ones his uncle had hired. The ones he was planning to fire tomorrow.
"Get in the car," he repeated, louder this time. He unlocked the passenger door.
Francesca scrambled for the handle. She threw herself into the passenger seat.
Before she could even close the door, Cooper floored it.
The Ford shot forward, pressing her back into the seat.
Francesca watched the woods disappear in the side mirror. She watched the flashlights fade.
She turned to look at the man driving.
He was focused on the road. His hands gripped the steering wheel with casual strength. He wasn't wearing a suit. Just a grey t-shirt that stretched across broad shoulders.
"Thank you," she whispered.
The adrenaline crashed. The drug took over completely.
The darkness folded in on her. Her head lolled against the window.
The last thing she saw was the man's eyes glancing at her. They weren't kind. They were calculating.
