The Billionaire's Fugitive Wife

The morning light, sharp and cold, sliced through the blinds, painting harsh stripes across my face. It was April, a month that always felt like a cruel joke, promising warmth but delivering a biting chill.

The clock on my nightstand, a relic from a time when I cared about punctuality, clanged out eight o’clock with an almost mocking insistence. Each metallic chime seemed to hammer into my skull, a jarring reminder of the exhaustion that pulsed through my bones, a weariness that went far deeper than the lack of sleep.

I lay there, caught between the stark reality of the day and the lingering remnants of a dream, a dream that felt both vivid and utterly impossible.

I burrowed deeper into the pillow, trying to will myself back into the dream, to escape the harsh reality of the day. But the world, it seems, had other plans. My phone, a insistent buzzing on the nightstand, tore me from the fragile embrace of sleep.

I didn't move, didn't even shift my weight. But my hand, driven by a force stronger than my exhaustion, shot out, snaking towards the phone beside the clock. The insistent buzzing had finally died down.

"Yes?" I mumbled, my voice thick with sleep.

"You sound sleepy. Didn't get enough rest?" Leith's voice, laced with concern, made me want to burrow back under the covers.

Well, the clock had already done its job of waking me, and now Leith was following suit.

"Overtime last night," I said, my voice flat. "What do you want, Leith?"

"I'd love to give you some time to rest, but I can't today. I'm sorry, Greer dear, but the chairman wants to see you immediately." I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath, the air heavy in my lungs.

The chairman. That meant trouble. Always trouble.

"Give me thirty minutes," I said, my voice firm despite the exhaustion that still clung to me.

I didn't wait for his response, didn't give him a chance to argue. I ended the call, the click of the disconnect echoing in the silence of the room.

Thirty minutes. That's all I had.

I was a private model at Falcon Industry, a company that specialized in recreating historical figures, and I was their biggest contributor.

Leith, my personal manager, was a good guy, but even he couldn't stand in the way of the chairman's demands.

I closed my eyes for a moment, trying to gather my thoughts. Then, I sat on the bed, pulling open the drawer beside it. Inside, a thin file, barely more than a few pages, lay waiting.

It was the petition to legally change my name, the culmination of months of planning and paperwork.

Today was my appointment, but now, that appointment was on hold. I had no choice but to set it aside, the dream of a new identity pushed back once again.

I grabbed my phone, my fingers flying across the screen as I sent a message to my lawyer, explaining the situation and apologizing for the delay. Then, with a sigh, I started to get ready. Thirty minutes. It wasn't much, but it was all I had. I had to make the most of it.

The chairman was waiting, and I knew, with a sinking feeling, that whatever he wanted, it wouldn't be good.

Fifteen minutes.

It was a blur of traffic, a frantic dash through the lobby, a whirlwind of greetings and averted gazes.

"Good morning, Miss Williams!" Some of the staff in the reception area offered genuine smiles, others just a quick nod, their eyes darting away.

I knew the drill. The chairman always demanded my presence, and the whispers followed.

I deserved it, I told myself. I had worked hard to get where I was, to become the company's most sought-after model. But the whispers, the envy, the barely concealed disdain, it never quite faded.

I nodded curtly to those who acknowledged me, ignoring the others, their stares burning a hole in my back.

I walked straight to the elevator, a wave of relief washing over me as I saw it was empty.

I reached for the button, my fingers hovering over the floor for the chairman's office, when a shadow fell across the elevator floor.

"Just in time," a voice said, "Thank you for waiting." he added.

I stared at him, then turned away, pretending he didn't exist.

The elevator remained silent, the only sound is the rhythmic hum of the machinery.

I could feel his gaze on me, a weight that pressed down, a reminder of the tangled web of my current situation.

He sighed, a low, frustrated sound, when I didn't acknowledge him.

"What floor are you?" he asked, his voice smooth, a touch of amusement in it.

"20th," I said, my voice flat, my eyes fixed on the buttons.

"Coincidence," he said, a knowing smirk in his voice. "Heading to the chairman's office?"

I wanted to say, "Of course, what else would I be doing on the top floor of this building? Hello, it's the chairman's den!" But I couldn't bring myself to be sarcastic, to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. I simply nodded, my silence a weapon in itself.

We arrived on the 20th floor, the elevator doors opening to a deserted hallway. The silence was a welcome relief, a break from his constant chatter.

I stepped out.

"Hey! Wait for me!" His voice, a touch too loud, followed me down the hall.

I ignored him, my pace quickening. I wasn't obligated to wait for him, to be polite. He was a stranger, a reminder of the complications that always seemed to follow me.

"You walk too fast!" he hissed, panting as he caught up, his footsteps heavy on the carpet.

I didn't slow down. I didn't have time for this. Not today. Not ever.

I had a meeting with the chairman, and the last thing I needed was a stranger trying to engage me in conversation.

Minutes later, I stood before a massive door, its polished surface reflecting the city's sprawling cityscape.

I pushed it open without hesitation.

The chairman, a man whose presence commanded attention, stood before the glass wall, his gaze fixed on the city below.

He was a man who seemed to be constantly in motion, even when standing still.

"Mister Ran..." He turned, his eyes meeting mine, and a smile, both charming and predatory, spread across his face.

"Good morning, Greer," he said, his voice a low rumble. He took a step towards me, his eyes lingering on the man behind me. "Oh, you're already here too."

"Good morning, Mister Falcon," the man said, his voice smooth, a touch of arrogance in it. He stepped forward, extending a hand towards the chairman. "Thank you for inviting me."

"It's my pleasure to have you in my company," the chairman said, shaking his hand. "Thank you for not declining my invitation, Mister Hoven." He turned to me, his smile widening. "By the way, this is Greer Williams. The biggest success of Falcon Industry. She will be your partner in this upcoming project."

"Oh..." Hoven mumbled, his eyes fixed on me, a hint of curiosity in their depths.

"Please, take a seat," the chairman said, gesturing to the sofa.

I nodded and walked towards it.

"It seems you've already adapted to this place," Hoven said, taking the seat beside me.

I nodded again, my silence a shield.

"Hey, don't give me the silent treatment three times in a row," he said.

"I don't like talking too much with humans," I said, my voice flat.

"We're going to be working on the same project. Together," he said, emphasizing the last word. I met his gaze, my eyes cold and unyielding.

"Working together doesn't require a deep connection," I said, my voice barely a whisper. He opened his mouth to speak, but I tuned him out, my attention focused on the chairman.

"Here's the script for the upcoming music video," the chairman said, handing us a corporate folder. "I hope you two will spend some time together before the final shoot." I felt Hoven's gaze on me again, and this time, I was sure I saw a smirk playing on his lips. But I didn't care. I was already planning my escape.

"Is this all, chairman?" I asked, standing up. The chairman nodded. "Well then, I'm going to leave first. I have an important appointment today and will review the script before the day ends. I'll excuse myself." I turned, my back to them, and walked towards the door.

"Take care," Hoven called out. I shrugged, not bothering to acknowledge him.

The city's noise assaulted me as I stepped out of the building. I was about to call for a cab when a sleek black transporter pulled up in front of me. The door opened, and before I could even speak, a strong hand grabbed my arm, pulling me inside.

I struggled, trying to break free, but the men inside were too strong. They forced me into a seat, ignoring my protests, my pleas for them to let me go. 

I stared at the three men who had pulled me into the transporter.

They were dressed in black suits, their faces obscured by shadows, earpieces nestled in their ears.

They sat behind me, silent and watchful, as if nothing had happened.

What the heck?

"I finally found you, Greer." The voice, deep and husky, sent a shiver down my spine.

Horrified, I slowly turned, my shoulders hunched, my gaze meeting his.

It was him.

Gideon.

His eyes, gray and ruthless, held me captive.

His legs were crossed, his posture radiating an air of power and control.

Butterflies erupted in my stomach, my breath catching in my throat. His lips, full and sensual, curved into a smile that sent a chill down my spine.

My muscles tensed, my palms slick with sweat.

"Are you afraid?" he asked, his voice a low purr.

I opened my mouth to speak, but his finger, long and pointed, pressed against my lips, silencing me.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against my ear. "You are invalidated to speak," he whispered, his voice a dangerous caress.

Goosebumps erupted on my skin, a primal response to his presence, a feeling I had spent years trying to bury.

He removed his finger, his hand cupping my cheek, his touch both gentle and possessive. His eyes, those gray depths, held mine captive. He gave me his sweetest, most phony smile.

"You stood me up from our wedding four years ago," he said, his voice laced with a dangerous amusement. "And now, you're going to change your whole name? You're so cruel, Greer."

I remained silent, my gaze locked on his. How did he find me? How did he know I was here?

He leaned closer, his forehead resting against mine.

His eyes closed, his breath warm on my skin. When he opened his eyes, they were filled with a mixture of pain and longing.

"I've been searching for you all over the country," he said, his voice husky with emotion. "I never imagined you were hiding here for four years. Why choose this place, Greer?"

My throat tightened, tears welling in my eyes.

I blinked, and they streamed down my face, hot and uncontrolled.

My chest ached, a physical manifestation of the pain I had carried for years.

"Even if you change your name multiple times," he said, his voice a low rumble, "you can't escape from me. What's mine will always be mine."

I knew it.

I'd known it all along.

Running from him was a false hope, a futile attempt to outrun fate.

He was a force of nature, a storm I could never weather.

He loved me, but his love was a cage, a prison I couldn't escape.

I'd spent four years rejecting the truth, clinging to the hope that I could start over, that I could be free. But now, I understood. I couldn't escape his web. His love was a curse, a death wish.