The Billionaire I’ll Never Marry

Twelve minutes before Eilidh Sinclair was supposed to walk into her wedding, she said, “I can’t do it.”

Ailsa Fraser closed the dressing-room door before the woman hovering in the corridor could hear.

“Can’t isn’t the question.” She kept her voice low. Music drifted up from somewhere below, softened by old walls and too much expensive carpet. “Do you want to marry Lachlan?”

Eilidh stood in front of the mirror in a white dress that had probably required its own insurance policy. Her hands were bare. The bouquet waited on a chair behind her.

“No.”

Ailsa let the answer sit.

Eilidh turned from the mirror. “That’s it?”

“That’s the part only you can decide,” Ailsa said.

“They’ll say I’m panicking.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.” Eilidh gave a short, humorless laugh. “But I was panicking yesterday too. And last week. I kept thinking if I made it to today, I’d become the person who could do this.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

Downstairs, the music changed. Ailsa checked the time once and put her phone away.

She had met women who wanted permission to leave, women who wanted a witness, and women who wanted someone else to make the choice so they would not have to own the consequences. Exit existed to make an available door real when money, pressure, or practical dependence made leaving harder than saying the word.

Ailsa moved the bouquet off the chair and sat, leaving the path to the door clear.

“You have two options that matter right now,” she said. “You can go downstairs. Or you can leave. I can make leaving possible. I won’t make it right for you.”

Eilidh stared at the door.

“What happens if I stay?”

“You get married,” Ailsa said.

“And if I go?”

“The wedding stops,” Ailsa said.

She did not soften that. There would be calls, anger, headlines, family pressure. None of it made the decision less Eilidh’s.

The bride looked at her reflection one last time.

Then she reached behind her head and pulled free the pins holding the veil.

“Get me out.”

Ailsa stood.

The next few minutes belonged to movement, not discussion. Eilidh changed out of the wedding shoes because she could not run in them. Ailsa handed her the coat she had brought upstairs. The dress stayed; there was no time to make the bride look like anything except a bride trying to leave her own wedding.

At the service corridor, Eilidh stopped so abruptly Ailsa nearly walked into her. The side exit was visible at the far end.

Voices carried from the main stairwell. Someone called her name. Another voice answered, closer this time.

Ailsa looked at her. “You can still turn around.”

Eilidh’s face went pale with anger. “Do you ask that every thirty seconds?”

“Until the decision can’t be mistaken for mine.”

Eilidh finally smiled.

“Then no. I’m not turning around.”

They kept going.

The car Exit had arranged waited beyond a side entrance. Cold Edinburgh air hit them hard enough to lift the loose edge of Eilidh’s veil. She yanked the whole thing off and left it in Ailsa’s hand.

Ailsa opened the rear door.

Eilidh hesitated with one hand on the roof of the car.

“Ailsa.”

“Yes?” Ailsa asked.

“Don’t tell them where I am.”

“I won’t.”

Ailsa would not hand Eilidh’s location to either family without her consent.

Eilidh got in.

A door slammed somewhere behind them.

“Ailsa!”

She did not recognize the man’s voice, but she recognized the effect it had. Two members of staff near the entrance turned before she did. One stepped aside automatically.

Ailsa looked over her shoulder.

A man in black tie was coming through the side doors at a pace just short of a run. He had discarded whatever version of polished calm the wedding required. His jacket hung open. His attention went first to Eilidh inside the car, then to the driver, then to the distance between himself and the door Ailsa was holding.

He was assessing the problem.

The man had to be Callum Sinclair. Ailsa knew the name; in Edinburgh, most people did. He was the CEO of Sinclair Group and the bride’s brother, and he was too late.

She shut the car door.

“Go.”

The car pulled away from the curb.

Callum accelerated.

For half a second, Ailsa considered getting in after Eilidh. She could have. The rear door had been open. The decision would have protected her from the confrontation already crossing the pavement.

Instead, she stepped away from the curb and stayed.

If Callum Sinclair needed someone to blame before he remembered his sister was an adult, better he found Ailsa here than chased the car.

The vehicle reached the end of the drive, turned into traffic, and was gone.

From inside, someone shouted that the bride was missing. Doors opened. Footsteps multiplied behind Callum.

Ailsa turned back toward him.

Callum stopped several feet from her.

He had run. He refused to look as if he had.

“Where is my sister?”

Ailsa folded Eilidh’s abandoned veil once over her arm. “Somewhere she chose to go.”

His eyes moved to the veil.

“You helped her leave.”

It was not a question.

Ailsa met his stare. Up close, what caught her was how still he became after running. Everyone behind him seemed to be waiting for his next instruction. He did not look back to see if they were there.

“I made leaving possible.”

“You stopped her wedding.”

“No.” Ailsa glanced toward the road where the car had disappeared. “Eilidh did.”

He ignored the correction and looked past her again, as if traffic might reopen the choice money and authority had failed to stop.

Then his focus returned to Ailsa.

“Who are you?”

Now the answer felt expensive.

“Ailsa Fraser.”

He did not know her face, but he knew the name.

“Exit,” he said.

Behind him, someone swore.

Ailsa held the veil tighter. She had known what it could cost Exit if a Sinclair bride walked away with the company’s help. Donors liked choice in theory. Families liked it until the choice embarrassed them in public.

Callum took one measured step closer.

“You’re the woman who took her.”

Ailsa did not retreat.

“I’m the woman who opened the door.”

Callum’s expression told her he had heard every word and did not believe the distinction mattered.