Billionaire's runaway bride
Vivian asked herself these questions as she wept—silent, shaking—curled on the floor with her elbows on her thighs and her hands shielding her face. Her back pressed against the couch, her body drawn inward, small, wounded. Eventually, exhaustion took her, Sleep claimed her where she sat.
****
The sharp sound of Jerald’s car horn cut through the quiet compound, jolting Matilda awake from her sleep.
In a rush, she padded downstairs with a silk nightwear clinging to her skin, the soft fabric brushing her thighs with every hurried step. The flowery design did little to hide how thin it was. She reached the door, caught her breath, and opened it.
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