The Runaway Heart

Cami

The heavy silk of the white gown wasn’t just fitting me.. it was trapping me.

Six layers of tulle, hand-sewn pearl boning, and a ten-foot cathedral train that felt less like high-fashion bridal couture and more like a gilded straightjacket. Every time I tried to pull air into my lungs, the structured bodice bit ruthlessly into my ribs, reminding me of exactly how much space I was expected not to take up today.

I stood frozen in the plush, velvet-lined bridal suite of the St. Regis, staring at my reflection in the floor-length gilded mirror.

Outside the double doors, the string quartet was already halfway through the prelude. Three hundred guests: CEO mentors, country-club socialites, political allies, and half of Boston’s elite, were sitting in the flower-draped nave, waiting to watch me become Mrs. Harrison Prescott.

Harrison was perfect. On paper, he was everything a woman in my circle was raised to want: tall, impeccably groomed, heir to a private equity fortune, and unfailingly polite in that polished, rehearsed way that passed for warmth. He didn’t beat me. He didn’t raise his voice. He bought me roses on Tuesdays and held doors open.

And looking at my future with him made me feel like I was drowning in an inch of water.

If I walked down that aisle, I knew exactly how the rest of my life would play out. It was a blueprint written by my mother twenty-five years ago: a sprawling estate in the suburbs, charity galas, curated dinner parties, quiet dinners where nothing real was ever said, and a slow, agonizing slide into becoming a decorative fixture in a wealthy man’s life. A rich housewife whose primary job was looking beautiful and staying quiet.

I can’t do it.

The realization didn’t hit me like a lightning bolt; it settled over me like a cold, terrifying truth I’d been running from for three years.

“Cami? Sweetheart, thirty seconds!” My mother’s voice chirped through the oak doors, accompanied by a sharp, impatient knock. “The planner says Harrison is already at the altar. You look divine. Don’t smudge your lipstick!”

My heart hammered against my throat. My eyes darted frantically around the room.

The main entrance was suicide. My mother, three bridesmaids in sage green, and two wedding coordinators were hovering in the hallway like security guards at a high-security prison.

My gaze locked onto the adjoining private bathroom.

I bolted, slipping into the marble-tiled room and throwing the brass lock into place just as my mother rattled the suite’s outer handle.

“Cami?”

Ignoring the sharp knock, I rushed to the bathroom’s grand frosted glass window. It was high up, stained-glass, and overlooked the narrow service alley behind the hotel where delivery trucks parked. I grabbed the brass latch, hauled it upward, and felt a rush of cool, crisp autumn air hit my face.

It was narrow. It was high. And I was wearing thirty pounds of silk.

It’s now or never.

I grabbed the massive, voluminous skirts of my gown, hauling them up to my knees. I kicked off my three-inch Jimmy Choo heels, sending them clattering across the marble floor. Hoisting myself onto the edge of the deep clawfoot tub, I dragged my body up to the window ledge. The sharp metal frame snagged the delicate lace overlay of my veil, tearing it completely off my head with a soft, sickening rip.

I didn’t care. I let it fall.

I squeezed my shoulders through the window frame, the tight corset digging brutally into my hips as I maneuvered myself onto the exterior fire escape platform just outside. The metal grate was freezing against my bare feet, but the adrenaline surging through my veins burned hotter than fire.

I looked down.

Two flights of iron stairs led directly into the brick alley below.

Taking a ragged breath of air that actually reached my lungs for the first time all morning, I gathered the mountain of tulle into my arms, turned my back on the wedding of the century, and began to run.

My toes bit into the freezing iron steps as I flew down the fire escape, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Below me, the alley opened up into the St. Regis valet and VIP staging area.

I peeked over the railing and froze.

At least half a dozen uniformed drivers and private chauffeurs were leaning against black limousines, smoking cigarettes and chatting. One glance in their direction and I’d be spotted. A girl in thirty pounds of torn white silk without shoes isn’t exactly easy to miss. If they alerted hotel security or my mother, I’d be dragged back up to that altar before the string quartet even finished their set.

Panic surged hot in my chest. I scrambled backward, reversing direction toward the rear service lane behind the industrial trash compactors. It was dark, narrow, and reeked of stale rain and exhaust, but it led out toward the public street.

I gathered the heavy mountain of tulle into my arms, ducked my head, and sprinted into the shadow of the brick wall.

Clack, clack, squelch—

My bare foot hit a patch of slick, wet mud near a leaking drainpipe. My ankle buckled hard.

“Woah—!”

I gasped, my arms flailing wilding as thirty pounds of designer dress dragged my center of gravity toward the filthy pavement. I pitched forward, my vision swimming with red brick and grey sludge. Desperate, I reached out and slammed my palms against the damp brick wall, scraping my hands but catching myself just inches before taking a full face-dive into the puddle.

I stood there for two seconds, chest heaving, mud caked between my toes and splashing up the pristine white hem of my gown. The dress was ruined. My hair was falling out of its elaborate pearl pins. My hands were shaking.

And for the first time in three years, I felt wildly, terrifyingly alive.

I wiped my hands on my skirt, pushed off the wall, and kept running.

The service lane dumped me out into a quiet side street two blocks away from the hotel entrance. Cold pavement bit into the soles of my feet, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. I just needed to put distance between myself and Harrison. Between myself and the life I almost surrendered to.

Then, the low, mechanical rumble of an engine echoed off the surrounding buildings.

A dark shadow cut across the pavement in front of me. A matte-black vintage motorcycle slid to a smooth, deliberate stop right at the curb, cutting off my path. The rider was dressed in a scuffed black leather jacket, dark jeans, and boots that looked like they’d seen a hundred highway state lines.

He didn’t look surprised. He didn’t look panicked. He looked like he’d been waiting for this exact disaster all morning.

He lifted the visor of his helmet, revealing sharp dark eyes, a shadow of dark stubble along a square jaw, and that infuriating, slow-burning smirk I had spent three years trying, and failing, to ignore.

Knox.

Harrison’s best man. The mechanic who treated my existence like an entertaining joke, and the one person who had warned me six months ago that I was making the biggest mistake of my life.

He leaned one booted foot on the asphalt, resting his wrists over the handlebars as his eyes swept over my torn veil-less hair, my mud-splattered dress, and my bare, scraped feet.

The smirk deepened into a full, lazy grin.

“Going anywhere, Princess?”