Chapter 2
The Escape
Naomi
The soft squeak of my sneakers echoes in the corridor like an irritating countdown to my doom.
I grew up in this church, dragged here every Sunday by my mother and then later by my father, who believed that regular attendance somehow balanced out the sins he committed Monday through Saturday.
But mostly, I have not-so-fond memories of being forced to attend Sunday Mass here, sitting in uncomfortable wooden pews while listening to sermons about forgiveness and redemption that felt increasingly hypocritical as I grew older and gained a deeper understanding of my family's business.
That feeling of suffocating hypocrisy is not much different than how I feel now, walking through these same corridors in a wedding dress that costs more than most people's cars.
My dress swishes around me, heavy and cumbersome with its layers of silk and tulle, but I push forward with determined steps.
I can hear the faint echoes of the Dixieland jazz band my father insisted on warming up in the distance, their melody haunting and melancholy—more like a funeral hymn dressed up as a wedding march.
Because that's what this is—a death sentence for the woman I've spent five years becoming.
A few weeks ago, I was living my best life in Los Angeles with my bestie, Megan, far away from my family's world of violence and control.
I had a beautiful apartment that I shared with her, and I had the freedom to make my own choices about everything, from what I ate for breakfast to who I slept with.
But in the blink of an eye, my father destroyed all of that.
He didn't just kidnap me—he used Megan as leverage, turning my best friend into collateral damage in a war I'd been running from for years.
Now I'm back home under my father's thumb, about to marry the son of a man who destroyed my family, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.
My life is over. The life I built, the woman I became—it's all gone.
Probably serves me right, though. That best friend Megan I had—well, she hates me now, and I don't blame her. I lied to her for years about who I was, where I came from, and why I could never talk about my family. What kind of sociopath does that to someone they claim to care about?
I tighten my grip on the hem of my dress and quicken my pace, my chest tightening with every step.
The soft glow of the cathedral's candlelit grandeur fades behind me, replaced by the cool, sterile quiet of the church's service corridors where the real work happens—food preparation, maintenance, storage.
It's fitting, somehow, that I'm sneaking through this area to escape my own wedding.
The double doors to freedom are just ahead, the service exit tucked behind the kitchen where catering staff bring in supplies and take out trash. I can almost taste the New Orleans air—damp and heavy with the promise of rain, laced with the scent of jasmine and the earthy smell of the river.
"Josephine!"
Nicole's sharp voice cuts through the stillness like a blade, and my muscles lock up as adrenaline floods my system in waves.
Of course, she'd find me—that's her job, to keep me in line, to make sure I don't embarrass the family by running away from my own wedding like some hysterical heroine in a TV drama.
I spin around, forcing my face into what I hope passes for a casual expression. "What, Nikki?"
The heels of Nicole's 4-inch Louboutins click against the linoleum as she approaches, her arms crossed and her eyes narrowing with suspicion.
She's dressed in an elegant navy dress that probably costs more than I earned in a month back in Cali; her hair and makeup are perfect, despite the humid Louisiana weather.
"Did you handle the flower situation?"
"Yes." The lie falls off my tongue with practiced ease—I've had years of experience lying to people close to me.
"So everything's fine?" She scans my face like she's trying to read my thoughts.
"Yep."
Her mouth turns up in disbelief. "So it's just a coincidence that you're heading for the service entrance?"
Think fast.
”I need air. It's suffocating in here."
The excuse is weak, but it's not entirely untrue. The church does feel suffocating with all that incense and expectation pushing down on me like a weighted blanket.
She cocks her head, studying me like a hawk. "You're not planning on pulling something, are you? Because if you do, you know who's going to pay the price."
The unspoken threat hangs between us, thick and suffocating.
My father has made it clear that if I run again, there will be severe consequences for the people I leave behind.
Nicole, Gabriel, Claude—everyone will suffer for my defiance.
And if I run to someone for help... well, Megan and Hunter have already paid that price once.
I force a laugh that sounds hollow even to my own ears and gesture at my dress with theatrical helplessness. "Do I look like I'm in any shape to 'pull something'? I just need five minutes to myself before I commit to a life of suffocation."
Her gaze lingers on my face, searching for cracks in my facade, looking for any sign that I'm planning something stupid. "You're the most miserable bride I've ever seen."
I don't say anything or move an inch, just maintain eye contact and try to project an image of resigned acceptance.
Finally, she sighs and steps aside. "Five minutes. Then you're back in the bridal suite. You're already late."
"Okay." I flash a tight smile and continue toward the door, every step carrying me closer to the fresh air and freedom beyond.
The moment I push through the heavy door, the damp air of the French Quarter hits me like a slap to the face.
It smells of rain-soaked concrete mingled with the ever-present tang of the river and the rich aroma of Creole cooking from nearby restaurants.
I breathe it in greedily, my lungs aching with relief.
This is the air I grew up breathing, thick with the complex scents of a city that's seen everything and survived it all.
Don't do it, girl, I think to myself. Don't be stupid.
But I don't stop. I literally can't breathe in that church anymore.
I tighten the laces of my sneakers, then hitch up my dress and make a break for it.
My rubber-soled feet slap against the wet pavement, the sound sharp and rhythmic as I put distance between myself and the church.
The cool sensation is a sharp contrast to the heat prickling my skin from nerves and exertion.
I don't have a plan beyond getting away from that altar.
All I know is that I can't marry Gabriel LaRoche, no matter how much he claims we need to do this to "survive.
" Survival is staying alive, but what I want—what I need—is something more than mere existence.
I want to live, to choose, to be more than just a pawn in my father's games.
The streets blur as I dart through the familiar maze of the French Quarter, weaving between wrought-iron gates and weeping willow trees that droop with Spanish moss.
The sidewalks are wet from an earlier shower, and my sneakers grip the pavement well as I navigate the narrow streets I once knew like the back of my hand.
I keep moving, ignoring the way the dress drags against the ground or the way my heart pounds like a war drum in my chest. Tourists and locals alike turn to stare at the bride running through the streets in sneakers, but I don't care about their curious looks or whispered comments.
I reach Royal Street and duck into a narrow passageway behind a café, my breath coming in short gasps.
The chatter of tourists and street performers filters through the air, blending with the faint hum of jazz from a nearby bar and the distant sound of a steamboat on the river.
For a moment, I think I've made it—that I've actually managed to escape.
Then a little girl points at me and tells her mother in a voice that carries, "Look at that pretty bride running, Mommy."
The innocent observation makes my heart sink. I'm not exactly blending in.
Then I hear the low rumble of a familiar voice behind me, and my blood turns to ice.
"Going somewhere, Josephine?"
My breath catches, and I whirl around to find Gabriel stepping out of the shadows like some kind of dark angel.
He's discarded his jacket and loosened his tie, his white shirt slightly damp with perspiration from the humidity.
His dark eyes glint under the flickering streetlight, his expression a mixture of amusement and something sharper, more dangerous.
Damn, he’s fine.
"How did you—"
"Find you?" He steps closer, his voice low and calm despite the circumstances. "You really think you can disappear in this city without me knowing where you are? You're home now, Josephine, and you're my responsibility. There's nowhere you can go that I can't follow."
The casual possessiveness in his words makes me back away until I hit the brick wall behind me. "Stay out of my way, LaRoche. This isn't your fight."
He laughs, but there's no humor in it—just a bitter recognition of how trapped we both are. "It became my fight the moment your father decided my survival depended on tying myself to you."
"That's not my problem."
"It is now."
Gabriel closes the distance between us, his domineering presence overwhelming like the heat of a Louisiana summer pressing down on me without mercy.
The alley suddenly feels much smaller, more intimate, charged with tension that has nothing to do with our escape and everything to do with the history between us.
"What's your deal, dude? You helped me hide from him for years, and now you actually want to go through with this bullshit wedding?"
"Things change."
"Things change?" The inadequacy of his answer makes me want to scream. "That's it? That's your explanation for why you're suddenly willing to be my father's puppet?"
Gabriel's jaw tightens, and for a moment I think he might actually give me a real answer. But then his expression smooths out, becomes unreadable again—the mask he wears when he doesn't want people to see what he's really thinking.
"You want out, I get it. But I think we've both learned now that running doesn't solve anything. It just makes you an easier target."
"Don't you dare pretend you care about me being a target," I snap, my voice trembling with anger and something that might be hurt.
"You think I covered for you all this time for shits and giggles? I care."
The admission hangs between us like a live wire, crackling with implications I'm not ready to examine. "The hell you do. You're just here to drag me back to the altar so you can clear your family's debt. A debt that both you and I know can never be repaid."
"Maybe I am," he admits, and his honesty is somehow more devastating than any lie would have been.
"And maybe the pomp and circumstance of this day is pointless, but I don't want to see you hurt.
And running again will have consequences, Josephine.
Like I said, you're my responsibility now.
My wife. And I'm not going to allow anything to happen to you on my watch. "
I don't know if it's the way his voice drops when he says "my wife" or the way his eyes burn with something raw and unguarded, but for a second, I can't look away from him. There's something in his expression that makes my heart stutter, something that looks almost like...
Damn, he was always sexy, even when I was supposed to hate him.
"Give me one reason why I should trust you," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
Gabriel leans closer, his lips brushing against my ear so his breath sends shivers down my spine. "Because I'm the only one who can keep you safe."
The weight of his words settles over me, heavy and suffocating. And for a split second, I wonder if running isn't the answer after all. Then I come to my senses and remember who I'm dealing with.
"Did you drive here?"
"Yeah, my man Franz is waiting in the truck to take us back to St. Agnes."
"I need a minute to get myself together. I'm going to use the bathroom in this café."
Gabriel studies my face for a moment, then nods. "Finally, you're making some sense. I'll text Nikki and tell her to stall. What do you need, five minutes?"
"Maybe like fifteen. It's going to take me at least five minutes to figure out how to pee in this thing."
“You’re smart,” Gabriel snorts with genuine amusement. "I'll give you ten."
I nod in agreement and enter the Brisson Café, breathing in the familiar scent of coffee and beignets. The place is crowded with the usual mix of tourists and locals, their voices creating a comfortable buzz of anonymity.
And just as quickly as I entered through the front door, I exit through the back door of their kitchen, slipping past the staff who are too busy with the Sunday rush to pay attention to one more person moving through their space.
There's no way in hell I'm marrying Gabriel LaRoche.
At least, not today.