All Chapters of Runaway Bride to his Billionaire Rival : Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

120 Chapters

The Meeting That Ends It

Scott chose his own office for the meeting because it had glass walls, cameras in the corridor, and no flowers anywhere. If Talia wanted a room she could later describe as intimate, she would not get it from him. Every detail in this office was chosen to remove the fantasy and leave only fact. Only observation. Only consequences.Freeda arrived ten minutes early, standing by the window with arms folded, staring down at the city without really seeing it. The city was always alive with light, motion, and traffic, but her mind wasn’t on the streets. Winnie sat in the guest chair, a file on her lap, her face hard and composed, a warning to anyone who considered crossing the line. Kris stayed near the bookshelf, quiet and watchful, notebook open, fingers poised to catch names, dates, and half-truths if any dared disguise themselves as memory.Scott stepped out of his office, jacket on, phone in hand. Expression calm, the sort of calm that people misunderstood for ease. It wasn’t easy. Free

Moment She Let It Hurt

The apartment went quiet after Talia left Scott’s office, but the quiet did not follow Freeda home kindly.It clung to her like an extra layer of air she could not shake off. Every step toward the car felt heavier, as if the city lights themselves were pressing down, reminding her of every misstep, every manipulation, every argument she had survived but never gotten to answer fully.Winnie talked the entire drive back because silence was never her style, words tumbling over one another, sharp and opinionated. Kris added her own, quieter, sharper remarks from the back seat when Winnie got too loud. Scott drove, hands gripping the wheel, eyes forward, saying almost nothing. Freeda sat in the passenger seat, staring through the windows at the blur of streetlights, letting the voices pass around her like water she could not hold.By the time they reached the apartment, her chest ached, tight and raw, a mix of adrenaline and exhaustion. She dropped her bag by the chair and moved immediatel

The Proposal He Performed Twice

Freeda had told only Scott about the registry office.No calls to family. No group chat. No pinned schedules or “opinions welcome” boards. She wanted facts, not emotions. What papers did they need? How quickly could a quiet ceremony be arranged? Could her name remain exactly as it was? She wanted precision, not sentimentality, not performance, not anyone else’s interpretation of her life.Scott met her outside the annex just after ten. Jacket off, sleeves folded once, hands loose at his sides, his calm more deliberate than distant now.“You came early,” she said, glancing at him from the curb.“You said ten.”“That is ten.”“I know,” he said, with that subtle twitch at his wrist, checking his watch, a gesture so small and measured it made her almost smile. “I was here at nine fifty-two.”Freeda almost smiled. “That is irritating.”Scott held the glass door open with a steady hand. “You’ve mentioned that.”The office was smaller than she expected. Pale walls. Plastic chairs lined the s

The Threat That Wasn’t Loud

They did not speak until they reached the car.Scott opened the passenger door. Freeda slid in without looking back, ignoring the pavement, the violinist, the florist, and the man who had attempted to kneel himself back into a story already buried. Her chest still carried the heat of the absurdity and the weight of control—a performance undone but still lingering in memory.Scott settled behind the wheel and closed the door. The car felt like a separate world, insulated from the city’s noise. Outside, the streets were alive: a bus rolled past, a group of teenagers laughed on a corner, a delivery bike cut sharply through the lanes. Inside, every sound was dampened by the tension they had brought with them, a shared calm built on exhaustion and focus.Freeda leaned back, staring through the windshield at nothing in particular. “Start driving.”Scott’s hands rested lightly on the steering wheel. “Are you alright?”She let out a short, dry breath through her nose. “No. I’m furious. But I’

The Wedding She Locked Down

Freeda spread three venue printouts across the kitchen table and crossed out the first two before Scott even sat down.“This one has a ballroom,” she said, dragging a line through the glossy photo. “If a room can fit two hundred people, it can fit Randy’s ego.”Scott slid the page aside with a measured motion, expression unreadable. “Agreed.”Winnie stood at the stove, wooden spoon in hand, judgment in the other. “The second one is worse.”“Why?” Freeda asked, not looking up.“It has a grand staircase,” Winnie said. “Men like him hear the word grand and immediately start rehearsing entrances.”Kris, curled in the corner of the couch with her notebook open, jabbed the pen toward the third printout. “That one.”Freeda picked it up again. Small chapel. Private garden. Twelve guests maximum, unless you rented the side hall. No side hall. No event package. No champagne wall. No decorative statement pieces for people to pose under and ruin the space with their expectations.Scott leaned bac

The Dress She Picked for Herself

Freeda refused to look at bridal magazines.The first one Winnie dropped on the kitchen table was pushed aside with a single, precise flick of her fingers. The glossy cover tried to tempt her with a princess, lace spilling over shoulders and skirts so wide they seemed to float. She ignored it.“I’m not dressing for a cover,” Freeda said, her voice flat, firm, a line drawn in the room. “I’m dressing to get married.”Winnie’s hand hovered over the magazine, then dropped it into the chair with a soft thud. “I know. I just wanted you to see what nonsense we are refusing,” she said, voice carrying that familiar mixture of exasperation and affection.Kris sat at the table with the guest list and chapel receipt spread in front of her, pen tucked neatly behind one ear. She scanned the notes again and muttered, “No glitter. No detachable train. No veil the size of a mosquito net,” ticking off the items in her mind as if that alone would ward off the absurd.Freeda almost smiled. “Exactly.”The

The Strings He Couldn’t Find

Mrs. Ekanem called at eight twelve.Freeda was still in the kitchen, coffee in one hand, the dress receipt tucked beneath a sugar bowl as if hiding it could somehow keep the day from moving too fast, from being exposed to the same chaos Randy had spent months trying to inject into every hour of her life.“Did you give our date to anybody foolish?” Mrs. Ekanem asked, her voice brisk, no greetings, no preamble, the kind of authority that made Freeda sit up straighter without realizing it.Freeda straightened. “No.”“Excellent,” the older woman said, the sound dry as sandpaper. “Because somebody called at seven forty pretending to be from the groom’s office. He wanted to ‘confirm logistics’ and asked whether your booking could be moved to the evening for media convenience.”Winnie, stirring slowly at the stove, jolted so sharply that her wooden spoon clanged against the pot. “What?” she said, eyes wide, almost choking on her own astonishment.Freeda’s voice remained calm, even, and cold.

The Promise She Made in Front of Stone

Freeda went to the cemetery alone.She told Winnie she needed an hour and ignored the questions in her eyes. She told Scott nothing until she was already at the door, keys in hand, the morning thin and fragile around the windows like tissue paper stretched across the world.He looked up from the table as she passed.“Do you want me with you?” he asked.“No.”He nodded once. “Alright.”No argument. No follow-up. No offer to wait in the car, dressed up as a compromise, as a respect. That was part of why she could leave. It wasn’t permission—it was recognition that she was capable, that she could hold herself together without a witness, without a buffer.The flower woman outside the market wrapped the lilies in old newspaper without a single question. Freeda liked her for that. White lilies, not roses. Not a bridal thing. Not a gesture made for appearances. Just something clean enough to carry to a grave without turning grief into decoration, without turning it into a tableau for someone

The Night Before

The dress hung on the wardrobe door like a quiet dare.Freeda looked at it from the edge of the bed while the apartment settled around her. Winnie and Kris had finally left after fussing over every last detail: chapel time, shoes, witness list, rice, flowers, the backup car key, weather forecasts, the cake that wasn’t really a cake, and the certainty that men seemed to lose all sense in the twenty-four hours before a wedding.Maybe they did.Scott had been quiet for an hour, sitting at the kitchen table with the chapel receipt, the rings, and the folded license papers arranged in a straight, perfect line—as if precision could hold disaster at bay. His posture was calm, but deliberate. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t sigh. He existed in a stillness so measured that interruption felt almost rude. Even nerves could not break him.Freeda stepped into the doorway, leaning against the frame. “You’re counting paper like it multiplies when watched,” she said lightly, trying to pierce the quiet wi

The Morning They Kept

Freeda woke before the alarm and knew at once that the day had arrived differently from every other day Randy had ever touched.No buzzing phone.No waiting headline.No courier downstairs with his name folded into cream paper, no dramatic arrival timed for effect.Just morning.Even the silence felt earned, as if the apartment itself had agreed to hold still until she crossed into marriage today. The air was softer, lighter somehow, the kind of morning that allowed her chest to expand without the weight of expectation pressing from every corner. She felt the difference in her shoulders, in the way the sheets rested against her skin, and even in the gentle stretch of her legs as she moved beneath the covers. She had not realized how much she had carried until it loosened slightly, as if the apartment itself was exhaling with her.Light filtered through the curtains in pale, steady slats. It brushed across the folds of the dress hung on the wardrobe door like a quiet dare, reminding he

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