My Runaway Groom's Billionaire Cousin

The reflection in the mirror didn't look like Blaire.

She looked like a porcelain doll encased in fifty thousand dollars' worth of Vera Wang silk and lace. Perfect. Fragile. Expensive.

Blaire pressed a hand to her stomach, trying to flatten the nausea rolling in waves. It was just nerves. Every bride felt this way. It was the biological response to signing away her life to one person forever.

"Oh my god, Blaire, listen to this one," Serena chirped from the velvet settee behind her. Serena was scrolling through her phone, the blue light reflecting in her perfectly manicured nails. "'The merger of the century. Singleton and English aren't just joining fortunes; they're creating a dynasty.' People are obsessed. The hashtag SingletonEnglishWedding is trending higher than the Met Gala."

Blaire forced the corners of her mouth up. It felt tight. Artificial.

"That's great," she whispered.

She glanced at her phone sitting on the vanity. The screen was black.

Jeffery hadn't texted. Not a Good morning, beautiful. Not a Can't wait to see you. Nothing since last night.

Her chest tightened. A specific kind of pressure, like a fist squeezing her lungs. Jeffery was emotional. He was soft. He should be blowing up her phone with nervous emojis right now.

The silence was loud. Too loud.

Suddenly, the heavy oak door to the bridal suite flew open. It banged against the wall with a violence that made Blaire jump.

Serena dropped her phone.

Blaire spun around, her massive skirt rustling like dry leaves.

Barrett stood in the doorway. Her brother. But he didn't look like the confident CEO of English Enterprises. He looked like a man who had just seen a ghost. His skin was the color of ash. Sweat beaded on his forehead, matting his blond hair.

"Barrett?" Blaire took a step forward. "Is it time?"

He didn't look at her. He looked at Serena. Then at Piper, who was fixing her lipstick in the corner.

"Get out," he croaked. His voice was wrecked.

Serena frowned. "Excuse me? We're in the middle of-"

"I said get the hell out!" Barrett roared, his voice cracking. "Now!"

The air left the room. Serena and Piper scrambled, grabbing their clutches and rushing past him without a word. The door clicked shut, sealing them in.

The silence that followed was heavy. Suffocating.

"What happened?" Blaire asked. Her voice was trembling. She hated it. "Is it Mom? Is it Dad?"

Barrett walked toward her. His legs seemed unsteady. He stopped two feet away and reached into his tuxedo pocket. His hand was shaking so badly he could barely grip the piece of paper he pulled out.

It was a sheet of hotel stationery. Crumpled. Stained.

He held it out to her.

"Blaire," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Blaire stared at the paper. She didn't want to take it. She knew, with a sickening, physiological certainty, that touching that paper would end her life.

But she took it.

She unfolded it. Jeffery's handwriting. Loopy. Rushed. Cowardly.

Blaire,

I can't do it. I can't sacrifice my soul for a stock portfolio. I met someone. She makes me feel real. I'm choosing love, Blaire. I hope one day you can forgive me.

J.

The world didn't go black. It went white. A blinding, sharp white.

A high-pitched ringing screamed in her ears, drowning out the sound of her own ragged breathing.

Choosing love.

"He's gone," Barrett said. His voice sounded like it was coming from underwater. "He took the Gulfstream. He filed a flight plan for Paris, but he turned off his transponder thirty minutes ago. He could be anywhere."

Her fingers went numb. The paper slipped from her hand, fluttering to the expensive Persian rug like a dead bird.

"Anywhere," Blaire repeated. The word tasted like bile.

Her knees gave out.

She didn't swoon gracefully. She collapsed. The weight of the dress, the weight of the humiliation, it pulled her down. She hit the floor hard, the silk billowing around her like a drowning pool.

"Blaire!" Barrett dropped to his knees, grabbing her shoulders. "Breathe. You need to breathe."

She couldn't. Her throat was closed.

Jeffery left her. On their wedding day. At the altar.

The humiliation wasn't just an emotion; it was a physical blow. It was a knife twisting in her gut. Two thousand guests. The press. The livestream.

"We're ruined," she gasped, the realization hitting her harder than the heartbreak. "The merger. The liquidity loan. If this wedding doesn't happen..."

"The stock will plummet forty percent by opening bell tomorrow," a deep, gravelly voice said from the door.

Blaire froze.

Barrett looked up.

Harrison Singleton walked in. The patriarch of the Singleton family. He didn't look sympathetic. He looked furious. He looked like a man inspecting a broken machine. Two large security guards stood behind him, blocking the exit.

Blaire wiped her face, smearing her perfect makeup. She tried to stand, but the dress was too heavy. She stayed on the floor, looking up at the man who held her family's debt in his hands.

"Mr. Singleton," Blaire choked out. "I... I didn't know."

"It doesn't matter what you knew," Harrison snapped. "What matters is the contract. We have a deal, Ms. English. My family does not tolerate public embarrassment. And my investors do not tolerate volatility."

"There is no wedding!" she screamed, the hysteria finally bubbling over. "The groom is over the Atlantic Ocean!"

Harrison stepped aside.

"The groom is irrelevant," he said coldly. "The name is what matters. You promised to become a Singleton today. And you will."

A shadow moved behind him.

A man stepped into the light.

He was taller than Harrison. Broader. He wore a tuxedo that fit him like a second skin, black on black. His hair was dark, swept back with severe precision. His jaw was a sharp line of granite.

Blaire's heart stopped. Literally stopped.

Declan Singleton.

Jeffery's cousin. The "Wolf of Wall Street." The man who had ruthlessly acquired three of her father's subsidiaries last year and stripped them for parts.

He wasn't looking at Barrett. He wasn't looking at Harrison.

He was looking at her.

His eyes were dark, intelligent, and terrifyingly calm. While her world was burning to ash, he looked like he was standing in a temperature-controlled boardroom.

"Get up, Blaire," Declan said.

His voice was low, vibrating through the floorboards into her skin.

"No," she whispered. She scrambled backward, pushing against the settee. "No. You have to be kidding me."

"Do I look like I'm joking?" Declan stepped into the room. The air seemed to get colder.

"Harrison," Barrett pleaded, standing up. "You can't expect her to-"

"I expect the English family to honor their debt," Harrison cut in. "Declan has agreed to step in. The paperwork is already being amended. A judge was convinced to sign a waiver, given the circumstances. The press doesn't know which Singleton you're marrying, only that it's a Singleton."

A waiver? The speed of it all felt wrong, predatory. A cold knot of suspicion formed in her gut, but she pushed it down. She had no time for conspiracy theories when her world was ending.

"I won't do it," she hissed, glaring at Declan. "I won't marry him. He's a monster."

Declan didn't flinch. He adjusted his cufflink, a slow, deliberate movement.

"Your family has enough operating cash to last until the markets open on Monday," Declan said. He spoke casually, as if discussing the weather. "If this wedding doesn't happen, your father files for bankruptcy. Your trust fund dissolves. This building," he gestured around the room, "gets seized by the creditors."

He looked at her then. Really looked at her.

"Is your pride worth your legacy, Blaire?"

She looked at Barrett. Her brother was crying. Silent, helpless tears. He looked broken.

If she walked away, she killed them. She killed her family.

The church bells began to toll. A deep, resonant sound that vibrated in her teeth.

Dong. Dong. Dong.

It was a countdown.

She closed her eyes. She saw Jeffery's back as he ran away. She felt the phantom sting of his betrayal.

Love was a lie. Love was weak. Jeffery chose "love," and he left her in the dirt.

Declan Singleton didn't believe in love. He believed in leverage. He believed in winning.

If she married him, she wasn't just saving her family. She was arming herself.

She opened her eyes. The tears were gone.

She grabbed the edge of the settee and hauled herself up. The dress was heavy, but she locked her knees. She lifted her chin.

"Fine," she said. The word was a shard of glass.

Declan's lips quirked. A microscopic smile that didn't reach his eyes.

He walked over to her. He towered over her, smelling of sandalwood and cold rain. He held out his hand.

It was large. Steady. A predator's paw.

She placed her trembling hand in his.

His fingers closed around hers. He didn't hold her gently. He squeezed. Hard. Hard enough to grind her knuckles together. Hard enough to hurt.

He leaned down, his mouth brushing the shell of her ear.

"Don't shake, darling," he whispered, his voice dark and promising. "The show is just starting."

The organ music started. It was a low rumble that Blaire felt in the soles of her feet.

Her body was vibrating. Not shivering-vibrating. Like a plucked guitar string that wouldn't stop humming.

They were standing in the vestibule. The heavy double doors to the nave were still closed. Just Blaire, Declan, and Barrett.

Declan looked down at her. He frowned.

Without asking, he reached out and grabbed the edge of her veil. He adjusted it, his knuckles grazing her bare shoulder. His touch was rough, efficient. Possessive.

Blaire flinched.

"Don't touch me," she hissed under her breath. "Just because I agreed to this doesn't mean you own me. Don't think you can swallow my company just because you put a ring on my finger."

Declan let out a short, dry laugh.

"You have no leverage, Blaire," he said softly. "You have nothing. Even the dignity you're clinging to right now? I'm the one giving it to you."

Blaire wanted to slap him. Her palm itched with the need to wipe that arrogant look off his face.

"Smile," Barrett whispered frantically from her other side. "Blaire, please. For the cameras."

She looked at her brother. He looked pathetic. He was willing to sell her to the devil to keep the lights on.

A sudden pressure on her jaw forced her head up.

Declan's fingers were digging into her skin, forcing her to look at him. His eyes were an impossible shade of blue. Dark ocean water. Cold. Deep. Dangerous.

"Listen to me," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "If you embarrass me out there... if you trip, if you cry, if you look like a victim... you will regret it. Do you understand?"

It was a threat. Plain and simple.

Something hot flared in her chest. Anger. It was better than fear.

She jerked her chin out of his grip.

"I don't trip," she spat. "If you play your part, I'll play mine. I'll be the perfect Mrs. Singleton. Just don't expect me to like it."

The doors groaned open.

Light hit them. A wall of it.

Flashbulbs popped like gunfire. Pop-pop-pop-pop.

Hundreds of faces turned toward them in the pews. A sea of strangers.

Then, the ripple started.

It began in the front row and washed backward. Eyes widened. Mouths dropped. Whispers erupted like a swarm of angry bees.

That's not Jeffery.

Is that Declan?

What happened?

The noise was deafening.

Blaire stepped forward. Or she tried to. Her legs felt like jelly.

Declan's arm was a steel bar under her hand. He didn't wait for her. He moved.

He practically dragged her the first three steps until her feet remembered how to walk.

"Chin up," he muttered, staring straight ahead. "Walk like you own the place."

Blaire forced her spine straight. She thought of Jeffery running away. She thought of him in Paris with some nameless woman.

I hate you, she thought, matching her steps to the organ music. I hate you, Jeffery.

The hate was fuel. It burned hot and clean.

They passed the pews. She saw the women. The socialites who usually looked at her with envy were now looking at Declan. They looked hungry. They looked terrified.

Jeffery was a boy. Declan was a man. A dangerous, wealthy, powerful man.

Blaire realized with a jolt that she had just traded a Honda for a Ferrari. A Ferrari with no brakes that might kill her, but a Ferrari nonetheless.

They reached the altar.

Usually, the groom waits. Usually, the father hands the bride over.

Declan didn't wait. He reached out and took her hand from Barrett before they even stopped moving. He pulled her up the last step, claiming her.

The Bishop looked confused. He blinked, looking from Declan to Harrison in the front row.

Harrison gave a sharp nod.

The Bishop cleared his throat. He looked nervous. Good.

"Dearly beloved," he began, his voice shaky. He skipped the preamble. He skipped the anecdotes about how the couple met. He went straight to the vows.

Smart man.

"Do you, Declan Singleton, take this woman..."

"I do," Declan said.

His voice boomed through the microphone. It was deep, resonant, and absolutely devoid of hesitation. He stared right at her when he said it. It didn't sound like a vow. It sounded like a sentencing.

"And do you, Blaire English..."

Her throat was sandpaper. The silence stretched. One second. Two.

Declan's grip on her hand tightened. A warning.

"I do," she rasped.

The best man-Declan's CFO, a man she didn't know-stepped forward with a ring.

Blaire looked down.

It wasn't the ring Jeffery had bought. That was a tasteful, three-carat oval cut.

This was... ancient.

It was a massive emerald-cut diamond, flanked by sapphires, set in heavy platinum. It looked like something a queen would wear to an execution.

Declan took her left hand. He slid the ring onto her finger.

It slid over her knuckle. Past the joint. And settled at the base.

It fit perfectly.

Blaire froze. She looked up at him, confusion warring with panic.

How?

How did he have a ring? How did he know her size? This wasn't a temporary ring. This was sized for her.

"Declan," she started to whisper.

He didn't let her speak. He grabbed both of her hands, pulling her a step closer, invading her personal space.

The Bishop closed his book. He looked relieved it was over.

"By the power vested in me... I now pronounce you husband and wife."

He paused.

"You may kiss the bride."

Blaire's stomach dropped to her toes.

She looked at Declan's mouth. It was a hard line.

She expected a peck on the cheek. A polite, dry press of lips for the cameras.

Then she saw his eyes.

There was a flash of something in them. Something feral.

He didn't lean in gently. He lunged.

His hand clamped onto the back of her neck. His thumb dug into the soft, sensitive skin behind her ear, holding her in place.

Blaire gasped.

Before she could exhale, his mouth crushed onto hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a collision.

His lips were hot and hard. He didn't ask for permission; he took it. She tried to keep her mouth shut, to keep her teeth clenched as a barrier, but he nipped her lower lip. Not gently. He bit her.

She gasped in pain, her mouth opening.

He took the opening instantly. His tongue swept into her mouth, deep and demanding, tasting her like he was starving.

A collective gasp went through the church. Then, the sound of a thousand camera shutters clicking at once. Click-click-click-click.

It was obscene. They were on the altar, in front of God and her grandmother, and he was kissing her like they were in a dark alley.

Blaire brought her hands up to his chest to push him away. She shoved against the black wool of his tuxedo.

It was like pushing a brick wall. He didn't move an inch.

Instead, his other arm snaked around her waist. He yanked her against him, eliminating the air between them. Her hips slammed into his.

He was hard.

His thighs were rock solid against hers, and she could feel the heat radiating off him through the layers of silk and wool. He pressed her into his groin, a vulgar, possessive claim that made her knees buckle.

Her brain short-circuited.

The smell of him-sandalwood, expensive scotch, and pure male aggression-filled her nose.

He held the kiss for ten seconds. Ten eternities.

When he finally pulled back, her lips felt swollen. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

She stared up at him, dazed, her chest heaving.

Declan's eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide. He looked satisfied. Like a cat that had just eaten the canary.

He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear again.

"Is that too much for you, Mrs. Singleton?" he whispered. His voice was rough. Mocking.

Heat flooded her face. She wanted to scream. She wanted to slap him.

But the crowd erupted into applause.

Declan turned to them, keeping her hand trapped in his. He raised their joined hands in the air, a victory salute.

He looked like a king. Blaire felt like a spoil of war.

"Walk," he commanded under his breath.

They started down the aisle. Her legs were shaking so badly she had to lean on him. He took her weight easily, his arm like an iron band around her waist.

They burst out of the heavy church doors and into the blinding midday sun of Fifth Avenue.

The noise was physical. A roar.

Police barricades held back a mob of onlookers and paparazzi.

"Mr. Singleton! Mr. Singleton!"

"Why the switch?"

"Ms. English! Is this a hostile takeover?"

"Was Jeffery fired?"

Microphones were shoved in their faces.

Declan stopped on the top step. He looked out at the chaos with bored indifference. The crowd quieted down, intimidated by his sheer presence.

A reporter from the Times shouted, "Declan! Why did you step in? Is this a business arrangement?"

Declan looked at the camera. He pulled her tighter against his side, his fingers digging into her hip.

"Because," he said, his voice carrying over the noise, "I couldn't stand the thought of her belonging to anyone else."

Blaire's head snapped up.

He said it with such conviction. For a split second, her heart skipped a beat.

Then she remembered who he was. A liar. A shark.

He guided her down the stairs and into the back of a waiting Rolls Royce Phantom. The heavy door thudded shut, sealing out the noise.

Silence. Instant, cold silence.

The moment the door closed, Declan released her. He didn't just let go; he recoiled. He slid to the far side of the leather bench seat, putting as much distance between them as possible.

The mask fell.

The passion, the possessiveness, the heat-it all vanished.

He pulled out his iPhone and started typing furiously. His face was a blank slate.

Blaire sat there, stunned. Her lips were still tingling from his bite. Her body was still humming from the contact. And he was checking his email.

She felt dirty. Used.

She raised the back of her hand to her mouth and wiped her lips hard, trying to scrub off the taste of him.

"Don't," Declan said. He didn't look up from his phone.

"Don't what?" she snapped.

"Don't rub your mouth raw. We're going to a reception, not the ER. You need to look perfect."

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a white linen handkerchief. He held it out to her without looking at her.

"Here."

Blaire stared at the handkerchief. She wanted to throw it in his face.

Instead, she snatched it from his hand. She crumpled it in her fist, her nails digging into her palms.

"You're despicable," she whispered.

"I'm your husband," he corrected, scrolling through a message. "Get used to the difference."

The car turned onto Fifth Avenue, heading toward The Pierre.

"Where are we going after the reception?" she asked, her voice hollow. "I assume I'm going back to my apartment to pack?"

Declan finally looked up. His eyes were cold again.

"No," he said. "You're moving into my penthouse on Central Park West. Tonight."

"I am not," she argued. "We can maintain separate residences. It's a fake marriage, Declan."

"It's a real marriage, Blaire," he said softly. "With real assets and real public scrutiny. You are moving in. Tonight. Prepare yourself."

He went back to his phone.

Blaire looked out the window as the city blurred by. She felt like a prisoner being transferred to a maximum-security facility.