Runaway Lover: Escaping The Ruthless Billionaire

Caroline pushed the heavy velvet blanket off her chest, and a sharp, tearing ache ripped through her lower back the second she moved, making her suck in a harsh breath and bite the inside of her cheek to keep from making a sound as her muscles trembled, protesting the sudden movement; she swung her bare legs over the edge of the mattress—the room pitch black—and reached out, her hands blindly searching the carpet for her clothes, until her toe struck something hard, a champagne bottle tipping over and hitting the floorboard with a sharp, glass-on-wood clink that sent her heart slamming into her throat so hard it choked her.

On the massive king bed, the man let out a low, rumbling groan. He shifted, rolling onto his side. His broad, muscular back blocked the faint sliver of moonlight coming through the curtains.

Caroline stopped breathing, pressing her bare spine flat against the cold wall with her fingers digging into the wallpaper, and she waited—one second, ten seconds—until the man's breathing evened out into a deep, steady rhythm, still asleep, and her lungs burned as she finally exhaled; she dropped to her knees and snatched her black lace bra from the rug, her hands shaking so violently that the metal hooks slipped from her fingers and she failed to fasten the back clasp three times before it finally clicked.

Next was her evening gown. The hem was completely torn. She pulled the ruined fabric over her head, the silk rubbing against her bruised skin with a friction that sounded like sandpaper in the dead silence of the penthouse, and she forced herself to slow down, inch by agonizing inch.

She needed her clutch. Caroline patted the surface of the mahogany nightstand, her fingertips brushing against cold metal and a leather strap—a Patek Philippe watch—and the heavy, icy weight of the luxury timepiece sent a shockwave of class disparity straight into her bones, making her yank her hand back as if the watch had burned her; then her hand found her clutch, and beside it lay the half-broken silver fox mask she had worn to the masquerade, which she grabbed and shoved into her bag, only for a sharp pain to slice across her index finger as the jagged rhinestone edge of the mask cut her skin, a single drop of warm blood welling up that she ignored.

She walked barefoot toward the heavy bedroom door, her survival instincts kicking in as she tested each floorboard with the lightest touch, listening for the faintest groan of the wood and moving with the practiced silence of someone used to escaping notice—moving like a ghost—until her hand wrapped around the brass doorknob and pressed it down, the stiff mechanical lock letting out a tiny, metallic click that made her freeze again, throwing a terrified glance over her shoulder; the man did not move, so Caroline yanked the door open, slipped through the gap, and pulled it shut behind her.

The harsh, fluorescent lights of