The Runaway Bride's Secret Billionaire Protector

Francesca sat before the vanity, her reflection a stranger trapped in a gilded cage.

The woman in the mirror wore a dress that cost more than a mid-sized sedan, layers of French lace and silk that felt less like a garment and more like a shroud. Her skin was the color of old paper. Her eyes, usually a vibrant hazel, were dull, two extinguished candles.

She wasn't breathing. Not really. She was sipping air in shallow, terrified gasps, trying not to expand her ribs against the corset that held her torso in a vice grip.

Her fingers, cold and trembling, clutched the silver locket around her neck. It was cheap, tarnished, and the only thing in this room that actually belonged to her. Her mother's locket.

Just breathe, Fran. Just survive today.

She closed her eyes, forcing a memory to the surface. Lance. His voice on the phone last night.

"I have a meeting, Fran. Don't be dramatic. It's just cold feet."

The click of the line going dead had echoed in her ear for hours. It was a sound of dismissal. A sound that said her fears were inconvenient.

The bedroom door banged open against the wall.

Francesca jumped, her hand flying to her chest.

Dollie Leonard sauntered in. She was wearing a bridesmaid dress that was cut too low and hemmed too high, a deliberate splash of crimson against the pristine white of the room.

"You look like a corpse," Dollie said. Her voice was sugar-coated glass. She walked behind Francesca, her eyes meeting Francesca's in the mirror. There was no sisterly affection there. Only the cold, hard glint of triumph.

Dollie reached out, her manicured nail tracing the delicate lace of the veil. "Such a waste. This was supposed to be mine, you know. Before Daddy realized the Ortegas wanted a sacrifice, not a wife."

Francesca stood up. The chair scraped harsh against the hardwood floor.

"Then take it," Francesca said, her voice shaking but her chin high. "Take the dress. Take the wedding. You were the one who wanted the title."

Dollie's smile faltered, just for a second. Then it sharpened.

"And live with a monster? A cripple who burns things for fun?" Dollie laughed, a brittle sound. "No thanks. I prefer men who can walk. And who have faces."

Janeen Leonard swept into the room before Francesca could respond. The stepmother. The architect of this nightmare.

"Enough chatter," Janeen said. She was smiling, but her eyes were dead. She moved with the efficiency of a general on a battlefield. She adjusted Francesca's veil, her fingers pinching Francesca's scalp. "The car is waiting."

"I can't do this," Francesca whispered. The panic was rising, a tide of black water in her throat. "I can't marry him. Everyone says he killed his last-"

"You will do this," Janeen hissed, her face inches from Francesca's. The mask of civility dropped. "Your father's company is leveraged to the hilt. If you don't walk down that aisle, we lose everything. The