Beautiful Villain (Beautifully Ruined)

Chapter 1 Mikayla

Mikayla

I hated churches. The only time I ever imagined entering one willingly was when I’d be too dead to complain. And even then, I couldn’t make any promises…

I stood in front of the mirror in the bride’s dressing room, hands braced against the dressing table, staring at a woman I barely recognized.

Pale. Still. Smiling the way women do when they’re expected to be grateful for their own undoing.

My hands were steady, which felt like a betrayal.

I’d hoped for shaking, for hysteria—something dramatic enough to stop this train before it hit me.

Instead, I looked like a bride.

Ivory silk hugged my waist. Lace crawled up my spine like it was alive. A veil was pinned too tightly into my hair, pulling at my scalp every time I breathed.

Smile, I told my reflection. Just smile and you’ll wake up.

I leaned closer to the glass, lowering my voice as if the walls might hear.

Congratulations, I thought dryly. You’ve officially outdone every bad decision you’ve ever made.

This was not how I had ever envisioned my wedding day.

I hated the dress. It was too bright and stiff, too honest—like it expected purity I’d never promised and innocence I’d long buried.

It clung in all the wrong places and scratched in others, as if even the fabric resented being part of this farce.

I looked less like a bride and more like a well-dressed hostage.

I hated the church with its cold, unforgiving stone and high ceilings.

Saints staring down at me with expressions that said we warned you.

The air smelled old and stale, which felt appropriate, if not particularly comforting.

Every echo of movement bounced back at me too loud and too final, like the building itself was counting down to my execution.

And then there was the groom. I hated him most of all.

His name sat in my chest like something sour, something half-digested.

I could already picture him at the end of the aisle—perfectly composed, perfectly pleased with himself—waiting to claim me like a prize he’d paid for in advance.

I wondered briefly if anyone would notice if I tripped on the way down the aisle and simply…

kept running. Out the doors. Into the street. Into another life.

Outside the door, the organ swelled. Guests murmured. Somewhere, a man waited to claim me. My stomach twisted. I straightened my spine and smoothed the hated fabric, then met my own gaze one last time.

My makeup had been done by careful hands that never once asked if I was happy.

Soft, bridal. As if softness could save me.

A pale wash of colour brushed across my lids, just enough to make my dark brown eyes look larger, more obedient.

Lashes fanned thick and black, shadowing eyes that had already learned how to hold grief without spilling it.

My lips were painted a muted rose, which felt wrong on me. Too hopeful. Too alive.

Black curls framed my face in glossy spirals, pinned back just enough to suggest restraint while still allowing a few rebellious strands to fall loose around my temples.

They softened me, which felt like another quiet betrayal.

Against my porcelain skin—too pale today, drained by dread—they looked almost violent. Like Medusa’s head.

The grief was there if you knew how to look.

Etched in the tightness around my mouth.

In the way my jaw stayed clenched, as though holding words I would never be allowed to speak.

In my eyes, dark and steady and far too old for a woman about to be married.

I looked like someone attending her own funeral—composed, respectful, already resigned.

There was a knock at the door—sharp, impatient. I already knew who it would be.

“It’s been more than five minutes, Mikayla,” my stepfather George said through the door. “The guests are seated.”

My fingers curled into fists. “I need more time.”

Fuck you, George.

A pause. Then his voice softened, trying to coax me out. “Don’t do this. Not today.”

Not today. As if there had ever been a day I could refuse him.

I opened the door.

My stepfather stood there in his dark suit, his jaw tight. He looked smaller than I remembered. Older. Weaker. And he couldn’t meet my gaze.

“You promised,” I said quietly.

“I know.”

“You promised me I wouldn’t have to do this.”

His shoulders sagged. “It’s only a marriage.”

My laugh came out sharp and brittle. “Then you marry him.”

He flinched. “Lower your voice.”

“Why?” My pulse hammered. “Is he listening already?”

George glanced down the hall, then grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the room. His grip was clammy.

“You don’t understand,” he whispered. “I didn’t have a choice.”

Neither did I. Funny how that worked.

“You gambled,” I hissed. “Again.”

His mouth tightened. “I’m sorry.”

“And this time, you gambled my life away. After you promised!”

I sounded like a petulant child, even to my own ears—one breath away from stomping my feet for emphasis.

The organ music shifted—something slow, solemn. A warning bell. We were entering the final moments of me being a free woman. My chest felt too tight. I needed air. Space. Something that wasn’t closing in on me from every side.

“I won’t survive this,” I said. “You know that.”

“He won’t hurt you if you behave,” my father said quickly. “He needs a wife. A respectable image. If you give him that—”

“He killed his last fiancée,” I reminded him.

There was a hesitant beat before he responded.

“That was a rumor.”

“She disappeared.”

Another beat. Longer this time.

George’s silence was the loudest thing in the room.

“Please,” he said finally. “Just do me this favour and get through today.”

Then what?

Something in me cracked. I stepped back.

“I need to use the restroom.”

“You were just in—”

“I’m going to throw up on your shoes,” I said flatly.

He hesitated. Then he stepped outside. I closed the door and retreated into the room, heart pounding like it was already trying to escape without me.

I locked the bathroom door with shaking hands and pressed my forehead against the wood, breathing once. Then I pushed off and moved for the window before my courage remembered it had survival instincts.

I caught my reflection in the wall-to-wall mirror as I passed.

If I didn’t do this, I’d be a bride in a gilded cage.

And cages, no matter how shiny, were still cages.

I’d wither in it. Wings clipped. Voice silenced.

Probably die politely, the way women like me were expected to—quietly and inconveniently.

The restroom window was small and set high on the wall—because of course it was. I gave it a quick, ruthless assessment and figured I had five minutes tops before George came barging through the door again, threatening to carry me down the aisle.

I lifted the hem of my dress and climbed onto the toilet.

The lace caught on the porcelain. The silk tore with a soft, violent sound.

I froze.

Then I tore it more as I continued my climb.

The window groaned as I forced it open. Cold air rushed in, biting my skin. The drop outside wasn’t too steep—I could see green grass and a lawn beyond the window.

I hesitated only once.

Then I swung one leg through.

The veil snagged. Panic flared. I ripped it free from where it caught, pain biting at my scalp as pins tore loose and scattered across the tiles.

I stared at half the fabric still trapped in the windowpane—white, shredded, useless—while my heartbeat roared loud enough to drown out the church behind me.

I didn’t look back. I won’t admit that for a moment my hips caught in the window, but I forced myself through with a hard shove.

The fall knocked the breath from my lungs. Pain flared up my side—sharp, but manageable. I knew immediately I’d survive, which felt deeply unfair. I gasped, pushed myself up, tossed my heels to the side, and ran. Barefoot.

My dress was ruined. My heart slammed against my ribs like it was trying to escape.

The lawn beyond the church was silent. Of course it was—everyone was still inside the church, clutching pearls and pretending not to place bets on how long my marriage would last.

I burst onto the sidewalk, wild-eyed and breathless, immediately drawing the attention of people across the street who absolutely did not sign up to witness this runaway bride.

Somewhere in my head, the plan unfolded beautifully. Cinematically. I ran. I hailed a cab. The driver didn’t ask questions because drivers never do in my imagination. We disappeared into the sunset, veil fluttering, freedom secured.

Reality, however, did not get the memo.

Because if no one ever told you—plans almost never unfold the way you rehearse them in your head. Especially not when you’re wearing a wedding dress and fueled entirely by panic and the worst idea you’ve ever had.

I was so focused on getting away that I forgot a minor, inconvenient detail: traffic exists.

I stepped off the curb without looking.

A horn screamed. Headlights flared white-hot. And then—briefly, spectacularly—I was airborne.

Oh. This is unfortunate.

I landed hard on the asphalt with a committed thump.

So much for a graceful exit. The world tilted, spun, then slammed sideways.

Pain ripped through my hip and shoulder as my body rolled to a stop.

It wasn’t crushing or fatal, but the pain was enough to remind me that freedom, apparently, came with a deductible.

Enough to steal my breath and blur my vision.

I groaned as people shouted. Someone swore.

I tried to move, but I couldn’t.

Black polished shoes stepped into my field of vision.

A man’s voice followed—calm, irritated, terrifyingly controlled.

“For fuck’s sake,” he said. “I just bought this car.”

Someone swore. Someone else said my leg looked wrong.

I blinked, vision swimming.

The man crouched. I saw him then—his dark hair and sharp suit, bright eyes like shards of glass. Annoyance flickered in his eyes.

“Is she dead?” someone asked.

“She’s breathing,” the man said. “Unfortunately.”

I tried to speak. Nothing came out but a rasp.

He sighed, straightened, and made a decision.

“Get her off the street,” he said. “I’m not explaining a bleeding bride to the police.”

Strong hands lifted me. I cried out as pain flared, my fingers clutching uselessly at a stranger’s jacket.

The man leaned close, his voice low and cool against my ear.

“Don’t scream,” he said. “If you’re lucky, this is the worst thing that happens to you today.”

Dude, you have no idea. This is by far the best thing that happened to me today.

I was placed onto the leather back seat of a foreign car. The door shut with a heavy finality, sealing me into darkness and the scent of expensive cologne that pressed in from all sides. It was too much—too close, too unfamiliar.

As the car pulled away, the world tilted. The motion rocked me gently, almost kindly, and my consciousness slipped loose, drifting out of reach before I could grab hold of it again.

The last thing I heard was the man speaking again—mild, irritated, stern.

“And someone,” he added, “find out who she belongs to.”

Before everything went black.