All Chapters of Runaway Heiress: The Billionaire’s Forgotten Bride: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

She ran.She was a blur of white lace, a comet of her own destruction, fleeing the epicenter of the blast.The door to Room 305 was open behind her."Aurora!"Liam’s voice. Not pleading. Not apologetic. It was a roar of pure, unadulterated fury. A command.The sound of it, the sheer, arrogant possession in that one word, did not make her stop. It made her faster.She ran, not as a bride, but as prey.She didn't run to the grand staircase. She ran to the back, to the narrow, steep service stairs she had climbed just minutes before.Her silk heels, the ones chosen to match her dress, were a betrayal. Her foot slipped on the polished wood of the landing, and she fell hard against the wall, her shoulder striking the plaster.A gasp, sharp and painful, tore from her, but she made no other sound.The "broken glass" in her lungs, the "shattered glass" from the foyer... it was all through her. She was fueled by it.She ripped the veil from her head. The delicate, heirloom lace, held in place

The blare of the car horn was a shriek, a sound from a different world, and it shocked her back into her own body.She stumbled, her silk heel catching on the asphalt, and fell to her knees. The gravel of the roadside bit into her palms, a sharp, grounding pain.The town car, a massive black Escalade, was stopped just inches from her, the driver's face a mask of white, terrified shock.She was a ghost in his headlights, a sacrificial offering."AURORA!"The sound of her father's voice, a roar of pure, primal agony, cut through the air from the estate behind her.It was the sound that saved her.She didn't look at the driver. She didn't look back. She scrambled to her feet, her hands and knees scraped raw, and ran.She ran, a broken, lopsided sprint, her 20-pound dress a monstrous, dragging weight. The corset, which had been a cage, was now a straitjacket, refusing to let her draw a full breath.She was a beacon. A joke. A scandal.She had to hide.She veered off the road, cutting acro

The bus was hot, and it smelled of damp wool and exhaust. Aurora was huddled in the back, on a hard plastic seat that vibrated with the rattling of the engine. She had been on it for over an hour, a ghost in her ivory slip, tucked into the anonymity of the crowd. People got on, people got off. They saw her—the torn silk, the bare, bloody feet, the wild, unpinned hair—and they looked away. This was New York. A disaster on a Tuesday was just scenery. Their indifference was a strange, unexpected mercy. It was the first time in her life she had ever been truly invisible, and it was the only thing keeping her from shattering. She was no longer Aurora Vale, the heiress. She was just a problem for someone else to solve. The adrenaline from her escape had long since evaporated, leaving a cold, hollow, boneless exhaustion. Her body ached. The cuts on her feet and hands throbbed with a dull, steady rhythm. Clean it up. Liam’s words. Her father’s roar. The pop of the champagne flutes. The

The vow hung in the cold, salt-damp air, a new and terrible covenant.He will never know you. I will die before I let him touch you.Aurora was still on the bathroom floor, but the hysterical, broken woman who had laughed and sobbed was gone. In her place was a new creature, forged in the ice of that final promise.She was a mother.The word was a shield. It was a sword. It was the first solid thing she had touched in weeks.But the world was still built on Liam's lie.She pushed herself up, her limbs stiff and cold, and walked out of the bathroom. The beach house was gray and silent, the fog pressing against the windows.She was still Aurora Vale: the "unwell" woman. The "hysterical" bride. The "missing person" who needed "medical help."If she was found—when she was found, because they would be looking—what would happen?She saw it all with a terrible, crystalline clarity.They would find her. Her father's security, or Liam's. They would descend on this small, gray house with their

The bus back to the city was a different kind of torture.It was 5 AM, the sky a pale, bruised purple, and the bus was cold. Aurora was huddled in the back, her hood pulled so low it covered her eyebrows. She was invisible, just another piece of human freight, but she felt as if every light, every passing car, was a searchlight about to land on her.The ghost of Montauk was now returning to the lion's den.She had her mission: the passbook. The key. The one thing that could turn this desperate, frantic flight into a real escape.Her new, prepaid burner phone was in her pocket, off. She had used it only once, in the cold, dark hours before dawn, to do a search she never thought she'd have to do. How to wire money from a Swiss passbook account. The answer was simple: she couldn't, not without appearing in person.Which meant she had to walk into a bank.She arrived at Port Authority at 8:15 AM, stepping back into the concrete cavern, this time with a plan. The morning rush was a tidal w