These Reckless Vows: The Billionaire's Bride

AVA

4 YEARS AGO

~~~

I smile into our frantic kiss as he deepens it, his tongue tracing the bottom of my lip like he's begging for permission. I grant him his wish, allowing our tongues to intertwine as he lets out a deep groan.

He's not the best kisser, but I love him, and that's enough to make my skin flush under his touch. I'm desperate to feel all of him, for him to take my virginity and push into my pulsing core.

In the background, the TV blares annoyingly. It's some news story about a billionaire named Leonel something, who owns a massive tech company, and is in the middle of a divorce.

I feel sorry for him, I really do, but it's hard to care when I'm grinding on the love of my life and I feel his cock writhe under me.

I can't believe this is happening.

He breaks the kiss, and even as I try and look him in the eye, he evades me, pulling off my shirt in one swift motion to expose the red lacy bra I bought just for him. It was expensive, probably the nicest thing I own, but I knew it would be worth it to see the look on his face.

Except... there's no look. He simply snaps the bra off, tossing it aside, leaving my bare chest out in the open for the first time ever.

I'm a little disappointed, but I'm able to ignore that over how swollen my breasts are, with my nipples so taunt they're begging to be sucked.

Like he can read my mind, he bends to take one boob in his mouth, and the feeling of his wet lips on the sensitive peak is almost too much for me.

"Oh my God." I moan out, my wetness now slick against my thigh.

He flicks my rock-hard nipple with his tongue, biting a little hard, but again, I let that go.

He hurriedly moves to my other boob, and the rush leaves me feeling slightly disappointed.

"Hey," I say shyly, "Maybe we shouldn't move so fast for our first time."

Only then does he look at me, his usual warm brown eyes seeming distant. How did I not notice this before?

"There's no time, Jade." He says, calling my middle name quickly as his head jerks to the door, "There's just no time."

He sounds crazy, almost paranoid, and even though I should ask what's wrong, I'm more worried about ruining the moment and causing him to walk away. So I bend down and kiss his swollen lips in the desperate way he did it earlier. I'll do anything to keep him. I'm so tired of losing people.

He responds wildly, dipping two fingers past my soaked panties and into my clit in a motion so shocking it makes me gasp. My core goes molten as I grind against them, feeling like my climax is rushing near.

Fuck, this is everything. This is...

There's a bang on the door that makes us spring apart.

The abrupt way his fingers pull out from me leaves me feeling cold, but the fear of who is at our apartment is much stronger.

I scramble for my shirt, wearing it shakily as the banging becomes more insistent. When it's finally over my head, I try and fix my appearance, but it feels impossible; I must look like a trainwreck.

I turn to him, the only man left in this world I can trust, but he's just staring blankly at the door, not reacting even as the men on the other side yell a name.

Wait... his name.

He turns back to me, that almost empty look in his eyes becoming a little harder to ignore.

"Baby," I say, my voice shaking like my hand as I reach up to cup his face, "What's going on?"

He doesn't say anything, only leans into my palm in the same lifeless way he was staring at the door, and presses a light kiss to my finger, his eyes unblinking.

"Do you love me?" He asks gruffly, his voice still low from his arousal.

Another bang slams into our weak door, this one so strong I hear a bolt in front the hinges clatter to the ground.

My heart pounds in my chest, "Babe, wh-what's going on?"

"Do you love me enough to forgive me?" He asks in a flat tone.

The world suddenly seems to tilt off its axis, and everything bends in a dizzying wave.

"What have you done?" I tremble out, a cold sweat running down my temple.

The door bangs again, each loud boom making my heart give one jolt after the other. Instead of answering me, he grabs my face, pulling me in for a rough, desperate kiss. It almost feels like a goodbye.

Disoriented, I kiss him back, tasting my salty tears between our lips. When he breaks away this time, his eyes have darkened, and he looks like a stranger, a boy I don't know who has taken my love's place and found his way into my bed.

"God," He says, his voice distant, "I hope you survive."

My teary eyes widen at his words, but before I can ask him what he means, He wraps an arm around my mouth, silencing my muffled screams, and stands us both up.

'It's fucking open!" He yells.

2 men burst into the small bedroom, looking like something straight out of a horror movie.

Nausea crawls into my throat, and I think I may throw up all over his hand. I try and kick, but he only holds me tighter against my struggle.

"Don't fight it, Jade." He whispers viciously in my ear, "Don't fight it or I'll end you myself."

"The cash is in the bathroom." He says to the thugs, "But she'll make up for the rest of the payment as I promised."

The black-clad men look at each other, nodding in unison. Together, they go to the bathroom, leaving me half-dressed, screaming for their help in the firm hand of my lover.

"Be a good girl, Jade." He purrs into my ear, "That's what your parents would have wanted."

I stop thrashing, my watery eyes looking up at him. Heat rises in my chest, replacing the familiar feeling of panic. This is something else, something I haven't felt in years.

I clench my hands at my sides, remembering Mum and Dad, how much they loved me, how much they trusted him, and it's the realization that he's also betraying them that causes my anger to boil over.

With all the power I can muster, I chomp down on his hand, satisfied when his metallic blood fills my mouth.

"You bitch!" He yells, letting go of me as I fall to my knees.

I don't stay down long enough for him to grab me again. I snatch my phone from the dresser near the door as speedily as I can, and the next thing I know, I'm flying down the street, winding past oblivious strangers, as I still hear the love of my life, the worst betrayal of my heart, call my name over and over.

But I don't stop. All I do is run.

AVA

4 YEARS LATER

~~~

"Up next, please put your hands together for Ava Allard!"

I startle at the sound of my name and the polite applause that follows it. I didn't expect I'd have to go on stage anytime soon, but I guess that's part of the curse of having a last name that starts with the letter A.

I walk up to the stage, and my head immediately begins to swim with how many people are present. Jesus Christ. There must be at least a hundred people sitting in this room, all of them pining over the different paintings from all the incredible painters around New York. And now it's my turn to face them.

Fuck.

I adjust my curly red hair with a steady hand as the smiling presenter hands me a microphone to address the crowd. Even in my 6-inch stilettos, I don't reach the presenter's neck.

When I hesitate at the curtain, his smile twitches in agitation, and he pushes me out to face the crowd head-on.

I was wrong before, there must be thousands of people here, not hundreds.

My breathing quickens, and I have to remove the mic from my face so no one hears how nervous I am. That's not what I need right now, all these rich art collectors thinking I'm terrified of them. What if they sense my fear and use that as an excuse not to buy my art?

I gulp at the thought, thinking about how the Madame who heads my run-down apartment wouldn't accept another excuse for my late payment of the rent. I'd be on the streets by next week if I can't get one, just one, of these rich assholes to invest in my work.

"Hello, everyone," I say into the microphone. My voice comes out shaky as I mentally curse myself. Already, most of them look bored, and a frontman even dares to yawn.

Well, that doesn't help my self-esteem.

"My name is Ava."

"We've been told." The man who yawned says, causing a small ripple of laughter to run through the crowd. I hope my face doesn't redden as every man and woman present seems to mock me.

Well, all except one.

At the very back of the crowd, right next to one of my paintings, one of the most beautiful men I've ever seen remains silent where he's sat. His arms are crossed across his chest, and even in one of the most fine-pressed suits I've ever seen in my life, a suit I'm sure could pay my rent for the next year, I can make out the shape of lean muscles. He has wavy dark hair, ending just above his ear, and a bit of stubble along his sharp jaw.

But what has me entranced are his grey eyes. They're looking right at me as if they can see all the hideous secrets I've kept hidden. Like he can see right to "the incident" that caused me to escape to New York, still on the run.

If he, or anyone here, will pay for my art, not only will I have a home for another month, but maybe the leftover money could help pay me to protect myself against the man I'm sure is still trying to hurt me.

I clear my throat, now rejuvenated by my goal not to be thrown out on the streets.

"My name is Ava Allard, and I have three paintings for you today."

I impress myself as I talk about the inspiration for all three pieces with a clear voice, no longer afraid of the people here. Some of them have even leaned in to listen as I talk about my second piece, Sunrise and Surprises. My hope spikes as I think about the possibility that they may actually invest in me.

Right when I'm about to move to my third and final piece, however, the large doors of the gallery glide open, and a hooded man walks in, leaning by the door.

I gasp, stopping my speech abruptly.

He has the same build as the man I've been running from, and his head is lowered so I have no chance of glimpsing his face, but even then I'm not willing to risk it.

The microphone slips from my grasp, falling to the ground with a clatter that makes the speakers whine. I watch as people in the crowd cover their ears from the piercing noise.

I try and make some words, even try and point at the hooded man who I'm sure has come here to finish what he started with me 4 years ago, but I can't. I can't do anything. I'm frozen and sure I'm on the verge of a panic attack until I see the man lift his head in confusion before moving to empty the bin at the back of the room.

It's not him.

A wave of relief floods me, but this is quickly followed by the realization I've messed up. The art collectors are murmuring between themselves, shooting daggers at me as if I insulted all their children and lovers.

Embarrassment takes over as I bend and fumble for the microphone, trying to apologize to the people present.

"I-I'm sorry I-"

The presenter rushes in to fix the situation, a fake smile plastered on his face for his irritated buyers in the audience.

He snatches the microphone from my hands, "I'm sorry for that, everyone. Ms Allard is one of our amateur artists. These types of people are bound to make mistakes."

Now I'm sure my face reddens as the crowd bursts out in laughter, none of them taking me seriously as I try to say I've been painting for years.

It's too late, already the presenter is peering at his list of artists, trying to get the next person to come and talk about their art. I feel like I can see my rent money just slipping through my hands. It almost makes me break my promise to never cry, but I haven't wept since 'the incident' and this crowd of rich people wouldn't stop my 4 year streak.

Right as I'm about to rush behind the curtain in shame, I see the grey-eyed man by my painting rise, stretching to at least 6 feet. Even though he's at the very back, the entire room falls into a deafening silence.

There's something about him that forces attention, and right now, he has everyone mesmerized. Yet, his bored gaze remains fixed on me.

"I'll take them." His deep voice rumbles out.

The presenter gasps, breaking his fake-cheerful character. He takes a moment to recollect himself, his eyes darting around the other confused attendees.

"Sorry, Mr Sinclair, you'll take what?"

Mr Sinclair, why does that sound familiar?

"Her paintings." He clarifies, "All of them."

Holy shit.

The presenter lets out an unsure chuckle, "Are you sure, sir? There's supposed to be an auction for these pieces, starting at $1,000 per painting and-"

Mr. Sinclair raises a brow that shuts the presenter up immediately.

"I'll pay you $100,000." He says, "Each."

AVA

~~~

I'll pay you $100,000. Each.

The words ring in my head as I make my way through the crowd, feeling weightless. I still can't believe they were said for my work. I've never sold a single painting over a few hundred dollars, and even then, most of that money goes to my rent; the rest I spend on TV dinners that barely help me through the month. This was meant to be my big break, but I never thought it'd be this incredible.

After the presenter collects his finder's fee of 10% for each artwork, I'll still be left with a whopping $270,000.

I nearly drop my phone, staring at the calculator app like it's going to save my life, and technically it is.

That kind of money will change the trajectory of my life. Not only is it enough to get me out of that terrible apartment with a leaking roof and a horrible landlord who forces us to refer to her as The Madame, but I can finally afford to escape America entirely and start my life somewhere the man from "the incident" will never find me.

As I move past other artists and buyers, I can't help but feel like all eyes are on me. The fact I'm wearing one of my only good dresses; a green sweater dress I thrifted for 4 dollars because it matches my eyes, doesn't seem to help. It feels like everyone here is trying to get a piece of me.

And it's all because of that man.

He's standing alone, talking on his phone in words I can't decipher. As I get closer, I realize it's because he's speaking Spanish. Of course, he's the sort of man fluent in something that isn't English.

What do I say to him? Thanks for saving my life? Are you sure you can part with all that money? As I step closer, I see the phone he's clutching is an Axion Tech device, and all my anxiety about his money flies out the window. That's the most expensive phone in the entire world.

As I scan through my mental catalogue of different ways to say 'thank you." I feel someone rest a hand on my shoulder and spin me around.

It's the presenter, looking more pleased with me than he ever has.

"Ms. Allard?" He says, his eyes fixed on my chest, 'Please, may we have a word?"

Uncomfortable, I try and look back at the buyer, but the presenter is already ushering me out of view, taking me to a room away from everyone else.

The room is poorly lit, and this seems like something that's done purposefully. The moment I'm in, I already feel the need to escape.

"Mr. Presenter," I say, barely masking my caution, "Can't this wait until after the event? I'm sure the man who bought my paintings is waiting for me."

"Call me Mr. Riggs." He says, eyeing my chest once again and ushering me into the only chair in the room. Reluctantly, I sit.

The dark room and the strange man with a predatory look in his eyes all feel too familiar, like "the incident" is happening all over again. I breathe out, not letting my anxiety take over. I'm a lot braver than I was 4 years ago, and no overweight presenter will move me to panic.

"Have I done something wrong?" I ask.

His smile stretches, "The opposite, Miss Allard. Your works have brought us more profit than any other artist all year! You should be proud."

I try and feel proud, but my instincts about him only cause me to reach slyly for the knife I always keep in my pocket. I curse myself when I find my pocket empty, remembering security made me submit it.

"So why am I here if I've made you $30,000 in one day?" I say, naming his finder's fee.

"Because you haven't made me only $30,000 in a day. You've made me $300,000."

The blood drains from my face as I realize what he's saying, "You want to take all my money? You asshole."

The insult just happens to slip out, but Mr. Riggs doesn't take it lightly. The smile on his face drops completely, and he rushes over to me. Before I can blink, his thick fingers are wrapped around my neck.

My vision clouds with stars as I lose breath, my heart threatening to beat too fast, but since "the incident," I've learnt to control my panicked breaths when attacked, instead saving my energy to find a way out. I messed up on stage today, but I wouldn't fuck up again.

"My money." He spits at me, "You only made that kind of sum because I took a chance on a poor, desperate artist like you. I would rather die than let you run away with my earnings."

A fierce voice cuts through the room, "I can arrange your death if that is what you want.".

Mr. Riggs goes ghostly white, and I feel the pressure of his fingers release from my neck as I gasp for air, falling on my hands and knees as I try and still my traitorous heart.

There, with Mr. Riggs and me, stands Mr. Sinclair, his face deadly.