All Chapters of Runaway Bride to his Billionaire Rival : Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

120 Chapters

The List He Touched

Freeda woke before the alarm because her body had learned a new habit. Expect the next move. Even in her own bed, her mind kept reaching for cameras, for Randy’s voice pretending it was calm. Winnie was already in the kitchen, hair tied up, mug in hand. Kris sat at the table with a notebook open, writing down times and names the way people do when they are trying to stay useful. Scott stood by the window, phone down at his side, eyes on the street. He did not look restless. He looked ready. Freeda walked in barefoot. “What happened?” Winnie didn’t answer with words. She turned her mug around. A fresh headline sat on the screen. OWEN PROMISES UNITY, INSISTS BRIDE IS SAFE Under it, a photo from last night. Randy’s smile. Freeda’s face caught mid-turn—Scott in the background, half shadow, half warning. Freeda stared at it until the words stopped meaning anything. “He’s already warming them up,” Kris said quietly. “Tomorrow won’t start tomorrow.” Freeda set the mug down. “He’s t

The Door he used

Freeda looked at Randy’s arm and felt the old urge to smooth things over, to take the offered exit and let everyone breathe. Then she remembered the altar. The way he smiled while he lied. Randy held the door open from the inside, bouquet in one hand, phone in the other, arm angled toward her like it was help. “Come on,” he said, gentle enough for strangers. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” “Close the door,” Freeda told the hostess. The hostess blinked, caught between rules and a camera line. “Miss James, I’m sorry, I can’t.” Randy’s smile stayed put. His eyes did not. “You’re doing it again,” he murmured. “Turning a simple moment into a scene.” “It was simple until you touched the list,” Freeda said. The hostess cleared her throat. “Mr. Owen is the principal guest. If you’re attached to his entry, I have to confirm with him.” “I’m not attached to him,” Freeda said. Randy lifted his phone a little higher, framing her face. “Say it again.” Freeda looked straight

The Announcement

The host kept smiling, as if nothing in the room was wrong. “Please welcome Mr Scott Baley,” he said again, “and Mr Randy Owen.” Applause started because people were trained to clap when money stood up. It rolled across the tables in neat waves. Freeda did not clap. Randy did. He stood with that same calm smile, phone no longer raised, because he didn’t need it right now. The room was the camera. He buttoned his jacket like he was stepping into his own spotlight. Scott moved too. Quiet. Controlled. No grin. No show. He didn’t look at Randy when he walked, and that alone felt like an insult. Freeda stayed seated. Back straight. Chin up. Her hands rested on the table, fingers loose, like she had all the time in the world. Winnie and Kris were somewhere behind the crowd. She didn’t turn to find them. If she did, Randy would read it as a sign of seeking safety. The host kept talking, voice bright. “Tonight is about partnership,” he said. “About growth. About what’s next.” Randy

The grip that told the truth

Randy’s fingers stayed around her wrist like it was normal. Like he hadn’t just done it in front of a room full of sponsors. Freeda didn’t yank away. She didn’t flinch. She looked at his hand first, then up at his face. “You heard me,” she said. “Let go.” Randy kept smiling for the cameras. “Don’t start this again.” “I’m not starting anything,” Freeda said. “You are. With your hand.” A microphone lowered. Then another. Scott was right there, a step behind, still. Not reaching. Waiting for her to decide what she wanted him to be. Freeda’s voice stayed steady. “Take your hand off me.” Randy’s thumb pressed once, light, like a reminder. “You’re making it awkward.” “You’re the one grabbing me,” Freeda said. “I’m guiding you off the stage.” “I can walk,” she said. “Try trusting that.” The host hovered near the microphones, face frozen between panic and politeness. Freeda turned her head slightly. “Sir,” she said to the host, in a calm, clear voice, “please ask Mr Owen to remov

The promise on tape

For a second, nobody moved. The speakers still gave off a faint hiss, like the room itself hadn’t finished swallowing Scott’s voice. Freeda kept her face steady. Her stomach wasn’t. It had dropped, then hovered, then dropped again, like it didn’t trust the floor. Talia held her phone at her side now, chin high, eyes bright with satisfaction she tried to hide. “Answer me,” she said, not to the room, to Freeda. “Are you still choosing him?” Randy didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. His smile was sitting on his face like it paid rent. Freeda looked at Scott. Not at his mouth. In his eyes. He didn’t look away. “Did you say it?” Freeda asked. Scott’s voice came out even, but it wasn’t smooth. “Yes.” A ripple ran through the crowd. Not gasps. More like people leaning closer without moving their feet. Freeda nodded once. “Say the rest.” Scott’s jaw tightened. “There isn’t more that helps.” “That’s not an answer,” Freeda said, calm enough to sound colder than angry. Talia stepp

The Seat She Chose

The seating chart stayed on the screen, bright gold against black. FREEDA JAMES — FIRST SEAT — MR OWEN. Randy stood a few steps away, that patient smile on her face, phone lifted, eyes daring her to react. Freeda kept her face still and let the noise circle her instead of cutting into her skin. Winnie brushed her elbow once, a quick check. Kris stayed close, shoulders squared. Scott remained a pace back, hands at his sides, watching her like he’d follow only if she asked. Randy tilted his head. “First seat,” he said softly, loud enough for the closest microphones. “All this attention. You always wanted to be seen.” Freeda’s mouth tipped. “I wanted to be loved. You brought cameras.” Randy’s smile didn’t break. “See,” he said to the room, “she’s spiraling.” “Stop using that word,” Freeda said, eyes steady. “It’s lazy.” Freeda looked past his lens to the host, frozen beside the stage. “Can I borrow your mic?” she asked. The host hesitated, then handed it over. Freeda faced the

The welcome he tried to own

Freeda walked toward the stage with Randy’s fingers still ghosting her wrist. Not pain. No bruise. Just the memory of being handled in a room full of people who would pretend they didn’t notice as long as the night stayed polished. The host waited at the steps, microphone in hand, smile stretched thin. Randy stood close behind her, phone up, calm face, perfect posture, like the next ten seconds belonged to him. “Smile,” he murmured. “Let it end.” Freeda stepped onto the stage and took the mic from the host. A hush rolled through the room. Chairs stopped scraping. Glasses paused halfway up. The sponsor wall glowed behind her like a dare. Freeda looked straight ahead, not at Randy, not at Scott, not at the reporters crouched near the front row. “This seat isn’t a prize,” she said, voice steady. “It’s a chair. And it’s mine to sit in or leave.” Randy’s mouth tipped, like he was proud of her for cooperating. Freeda kept going. “My name is Freeda James,” she said. “Not Mrs Owen.

The Words He Wrote for Her

The gold slide sat on the sponsor wall like it had always been there. FREEDA JAMES & RANDY OWEN: ENGAGEMENT STATEMENT, LIVE. Randy stood at the bottom of the stage steps with that same careful smile, the one he wore when he wanted strangers to believe he was a calm man dealing with a difficult woman. The ring box was still in his hand. His phone was out of his hand for once, resting on the table behind him, screen glowing like it was waiting for its turn. “Go on,” he said softly. “Tell them I’m lying.” The host clutched his cue cards like a lifeline. His eyes kept flicking between Randy, the technician booth, and Freeda’s face like he was praying somebody else would take responsibility for this mess. Freeda looked at the slide, then at the room. She saw the hunger before she saw the faces. People are leaning without moving. Mouths parted just slightly. Sponsors pretending they were above gossip while making room for it in their chests. Winnie stood just off to the side, jaw tig

The Toast he couldn’t steal

The sponsor wall held Freeda’s table in a tight close-up, bright enough to bleach her face. Every head turned because the screen told them to. Randy’s voice drifted from the stage steps, smooth as a lullaby. “Freeda,” he said, chin angled toward the feed, “wave.” Freeda rested her palm on the tablecloth and felt the weave bite back. Winnie’s knee bumped hers under the table, quick and steadying. Scott sat close enough that she could feel his heat, but he didn’t reach. He waited like the choice was hers, because it was. Freeda lifted her hand and waved once, slow and clean, like she was greeting people at her own birthday. A few laughs broke out, startled. Randy’s smile widened, pleased with himself. Freeda lowered her hand, took her water glass, and stood. No rush. No shaking. Just the scrape of her chair and the soft hush that followed it. “If you’re going to film my table,” she said, voice carrying without a mic, “at least film the reason you had to.” The laughter thinned. A

The name he borrowed

Freeda held the microphone and kept her hands steady through sheer spite. Her father’s face glowed above her, black and white, smiling like a man who had no idea what this room would do with his name. “He said I’d sign anything if he held my hand,” she continued. “He said I’d smile, say thank you, and do what I was told because I was lucky to be chosen.” A sound moved through the tables, the kind people make when a secret stops being a rumor. Randy stayed behind her shoulder. Close enough for the cameras to catch his calm. He waited until she finished the sentence, then reached for the other microphone as if he owned the air, too. “Everyone,” Randy said, voice soft, “you’re watching grief come out sideways. She’s hurt. She’s trying to survive it by burning everything around her.” Winnie swore under her breath. Freeda didn’t look at her. She kept her eyes on the crowd. “My father is dead,” Freeda said. “Don’t let him be used as a curtain.” Randy nodded toward the sponsor wall.

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