Reborn Heiress: Escaping My Contract Marriage with the Cold CEO
Chapter 44: Never Had to Run in Louboutins

Chapter 44: Never Had to Run in Louboutins

ANNABETH SAINT

I heard the crack first. I looked up at the ceiling and saw one of the huge chandeliers break free and shoot downward. I saw Fiona, screaming as her arms windmilled. Someone ... someone had shoved her forward. The chandelier--

I felt someone yank me backwards and spin me around, cradling my head so that my face rested against his dinner jacket.

I gasped, my heart hammering against my ribs. His arm locked around my waist, pulling me tighter against him. His breath was warm against my ear.

"You’re safe," he whispered. Then he scooped me into his arms and walked away. I huddled against him, trembling as the image of Fiona helplessly being tossed under the falling chandelier.

Chaos erupted inside the ballroom—shouts, panicked footsteps, the wail of security alarms. He didn’t let go of me. Instead, his grip tightened, and before I could protest, he entered a concealed door hidden behind a velvet curtain.

The door clicked shut behind us, sealing us in near-total darkness.

He put me down, and I immediately stumbled, my ridiculous dress catching on something. His hand steadied me, fingers pressing into the bare skin of my waist where the feathers had torn away.

"Careful, chicken."

"I hate this dress," I muttered.

"I know." His voice was closer now, a low hum in the dark. "You could always take it off."

My entire body flushed with embarrassment. Was my balcony buddy really suggesting we get naked together?

The room—if it even was a room—smelled like old books and cigar smoke. Distant light from under the door outlined his broad shoulders, the sharp angle of his jaw. I could feel the heat radiating off him, the controlled tension in his body.

His fingers traced the edge of my torn sleeve, feather-light. My breath hitched.

"Who are you?" I asked.

He didn’t answer. Instead, his hand slid up to cup the back of my neck, tilting my face toward his. I could feel his breath mingling with mine, the unspoken danger in the way his thumb brushed my pulse point.

"Does it matter?"

I should have pulled away. I should have run.

I didn’t.

The distant sound of sirens cut through the moment. He exhaled, his grip loosening just enough to let me go.

"Stay here for a while. Leave when things calm down."

I hesitated. "What about you?"

A pause. Then, quietly, he said, "I’ll find you again."

Then he was gone—melting into the shadows like he’d never been there at all.

Now, I stood alone in the dark, heart racing, feathers still drifting to the floor around me.

***|***|***|***|***

GRACE WITHERSTONE

Of course the universe would wait until the exact moment Marcus freaking Lu revealed himself to me—fake heiress Grace Witherstone, sitting alone in loser territory—to drop a chandelier on the party.

The crash was deafening. Crystal shattered. Screams tore through the air from the next ballroom. My chair tipped backward, and I thought I was about to eat marble floor—but then a warm hand closed around my wrist, yanking me upright.

Marcus.

Wow. How did he get around the table that fast?

His grip was firm, his expression worried as he scanned the room. "Stay close."

I didn’t argue. Mostly because my brain had short-circuited the second his fingers brushed my skin.

We pushed through the chaos, his palm burning against the small of my back. A woman slammed into me, and suddenly I was falling—until his arm hooked around my waist, pulling me flush against Marcus’s chest.

His heartbeat pounded against my back. His breath warmed my ear. "I’ve got you."

Marcus Lu smelled so good. And I was suddenly so hungry.

The adjoining ballroom looked like a war zone. The chandelier lay in ruins, glass glittering like deadly snow across the floor. And underneath it, I saw the body of Fiona Grand.

Guests screamed, scrambling over each other to escape.

I swallowed hard. "We should—"

A stampede of panicked party-goers cut me off, surging toward us. Marcus moved before I could blink—spinning me around, pinning me between his body and the wall as the crowd crashed past.

His chest pressed against my back. And for one insane moment, all I could think was: This is how I die. Crushed against a billionaire in an abominable pink dress.

"Don’t move," he growled.

Like I could. I felt everything: The heat of his skin through my dress, the way his fingers flexed against my hip, the low curse he muttered when someone shoved him closer to me.

When the crowd finally thinned, he eased back just enough to look down at me. His dark eyes scanned my face. "You okay?"

No. You’re Marcus Lu and you’re touching me and I can’t breathe.

"Peachy," I choked out.

His thumb brushed my hipbone—just once—before he let go. "Good."

Then he grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the exit, and I didn’t even protest. Because apparently nearly dying makes me forget I don’t like rich playboys.

***|***|***|***|***

VANESSA BELMONT

The emergency stairs were an endless spiral of concrete stairs, metal railings, and fluorescent lights. My heels—stupid, beautiful, impractical—clattered as Nathan pulled me up the steps. His grip on my wrist just shy of painful.

"Slow down," I hissed, nearly tripping over my dress. I hiked the fabric higher. "You’ve obviously never had to run in Louboutins."

"Let’s get out of the stairwell and into an elevator. The sooner we get to the suite, the sooner we’re safe."

Another door slammed somewhere below us. Voices echoed up the stairwell—tense, clipped. Security? Cops? Bad guys? Nathan yanked me onto a landing, pressing me flat against the wall as footsteps pounded closer. His body shielded mine, one hand braced beside my head, the other on my hip.

The footsteps passed.

I exhaled, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was. The heat of his chest against mine, the way his breath ghosted over my temple. His eyes flicked down, lingering on my mouth for half a second too long.

Fourth life, Vanessa. Fourth life, and you’re still letting him pin you to walls.

I cleared my throat. "So. Gregory Savage just happened to be here. Happened to shove Fiona into a death trap. And he’s sending us to a penthouse suite for ... what?"

"Someone to give us answers. I don’t know if those answers are for questions we want to ask. I guess we’ll find out." Nathan pushed off the wall, but not before his fingers brushed my waist, sending a traitorous shiver down my spine.

We hit the top floor. The keycard Gregory had given us glinted in Nathan’s grip as he pressed it against the electronic lock. The door clicked open, revealing a luxurious penthouse suite—floor-to-ceiling windows, a fully stocked wet bar, and leather furniture.

I kicked off my ruined heels. "If this is a trap, at least we’ll die in style."

Nathan locked the door behind us, then methodically swept the room—checking closets, behind curtains, under the absurdly large bed. I, meanwhile, beelined for the minibar.

The vodka burned its way down my throat. The empty bottle clinked against the marble counter when I set it down, the sound absurdly loud in too quiet suite. "How long should we wait?"

"An hour, tops," Nathan repeated, his voice lower now, rougher. He moved closer, his body caging me against the bar. The expensive fabric of his suit brushed against my bare arms, creating electric shivers that contracted my skin.

I tilted my chin up to maintain eye contact, acutely aware of how little space separated us. "An hour’s a long time to just... wait." My voice came out breathier than I intended.

Nathan’s lips pulled into a wicked smile that made my pulse stutter. "I think we can figure out a way to keep ourselves occupied." His hand slid from my face to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers trailing deliberately along my jawline.

The penthouse suddenly felt too warm. Or maybe that was me. His pupils dilated when my tongue darted out to wet my lips. His fingers trembled where they stroked my neck.

I swallowed hard. "So what’s the play?"

His hands framed my face again, thumbs brushing over my cheekbones with a tenderness that belied the dangerous glint in his eyes. "No play," he murmured, leaning in until his breath ghosted over my lips. "Just... us."

Nathan’s gaze dropped to my mouth, lingering there for a heartbeat too long before flicking back up to meet my eyes. A question. A challenge.

I answered by grabbing his shirt with both hands and pulling him the last inch forward.

The first brush of his lips against mine was electric, a spark that ignited every nerve ending. His hands slid into my hair as the kiss deepened, his body pressing me against the bar. The taste of him--whiskey and mint and something uniquely Nathan —flooded my senses, familiar and intoxicating.

Nathan’s teeth grazed my bottom lip, his hands sliding down to grip my hips and lift me onto the bar counter, every rational thought dissolved into white-hot need.

Glass bottles rattled as I knocked them aside to wrap my legs around his waist. His groan vibrated against my mouth as I arched into him, my fingers scrambling to undo his tie.

A knock at the door shattered the moment.

We froze, lips still touching, breaths mingling in the sudden stillness.

The knocking came again—louder, impatient.

Nathan moved to the door. Took a breath.

And opened it.