Chapter 8 I Prefer a Challenge
I PREFER A CHALLENGE
Raphael pulls into a Greenwich Porsche dealer and parks in the back.
Drills and tools sound from a large warehouse revealing a service station. A few workers glance our way, looking confused, but no one’s gaze lingers on us.
Raphael turns off the bike.
“What are we doing here?” I ask in a panic.
If word gets out that a runaway bride on a motorcycle pulled into a Porsche dealer, I’ll be found immediately. My wedding made the local and state news along with a few other cities in New England. Any blue blood will know who I am.
“It’s okay,” he says. “I work here.”
“You do?”
“I service the cars.” He hitches a thumb in the direction of the warehouse.
“I can’t hide here.” My heart batters my ribs again as my panic level soars.
“I’ll get you a ride to wherever you want to go, but I can’t miss work.” He puts out his hand to help me off the bike in the same way he’d helped me get on it at the estate.
“Of course you can’t.” I extract myself and the gown from the bike and let the material fall around my legs. It’s wrinkled in several places. “Thank you.” I hand Raphael his helmet after he climbs off the bike then finger-comb my messy long strands.
He watches me, concern in his eyes. “Are you okay?”
“I’m better now,” I answer honestly. “I’ll figure out the rest.”
“Do you have your phone?”
Elation rushes me when I remember it’s in my hidden pocket. “I do!”
I take it out, tempted to hug it, my lifeline right now. It has my mobile wallet, which is connected to my bank account and trust fund. Without it at my disposal, I would be helpless.
“I owe you money,” I say. “Can I Venmo or Zelle it to you?” Those are also connected to my bank account.
He blinks with surprise. “You don’t have to pay me, Emery.”
“I insist. Please. It’s the least I can do for any trouble this might cause you.”
“Just keep your husband off my back. That man has seriously dark vibes.”
I nod, but I’m oddly not frightened by my egomaniac husband. Just severely annoyed and disgusted by his scheming. I also plan to transfer money to Raphael regardless of his wishes.
“There’s a private bathroom in the garage if you want to use it.” He gestures inside the service station where two men stand watching us. “You can call for an Uber. No one will bother you—unless you need me to get you a ride.”
“No. Thank you. You’ve helped enough.” My stomach churns with acidic guilt. “I’m sorry for involving you in this. I wasn’t thinking. I just needed to get away.”
His frown holds pity. “I figured. Take care, okay?” He touches my arm and walks off.
“Thank you.” How many times can I thank him?
He helped me, but I also put him in a bad position. I have zero control over my husband, which now has my stomach filling with fear for Raphael.
What do I do now?
I spot a picnic bench under a tree near a high barbwire fence in the back corner.
Ignoring the multiple texts on my phone, I head for it and order a ride.
Maybe I should buy a Porsche while I’m here.
We passed a pretty blue one on the way in.
Where would I keep it? I don’t even know where I’ll be living. Ugh. Everything is so complicated.
For example, when Peter, my driver arrives in four minutes, where will I have him take me?
Again, I think of calling Adelaide, but adding one more innocent person to this mess is unfair. I have to deal with this alone. I have the money to care for myself.
I’m still working out my options when Peter pulls up and rolls down his window. I told him to look for the bride under a tree on a picnic bench.
“Emery?” asks the thirty-something man from inside the blue Toyota SUV.
“What gave me away?” I tease and get to my feet. My dress snags on the bench. I tug it free and pile myself into the backseat.
“You’re headed to The Carlyle, New York?” he asks.
“Yes.” I confirm.
“It’s about an hour and seven-minute drive,” he says as he clicks go on his GPS.
“Yep.”
The hotel is the last place anyone would look for me.
It was the last place I thought to go, in fact.
I’d stayed here a few times when Mom and Dad attended events in the city, and their penthouse wasn’t an option due to a prolonged renovation.
Pippa and I were always left under the care of Bridgette, our nanny.
She’d take us to Central Park a block away.
It was one of those rare times Pippa and I actually got along—chasing birds, running around, just being kids and having fun without stressing about Mom yelling at us for acting our age.
They stopped taking us with them when I was ten, after one small incident spiraled into one of Mom’s infamous fits.
Pippa and I had talked Bridgette into getting us ice cream sundaes at Serendipity on the upper east side.
It wasn’t far from our hotel but too far for Mom’s liking.
She also didn’t want us to have ice cream without her because she couldn’t monitor the amount we ate.
“Desserts are to be sampled, not devoured,” she always said.
I’d scraped the bowl clean with my spoon that day and loved every minute of it. But that act of defiance from me and Pippa got Bridgette fired and us banned from New York trips.
So no, my parents won’t suspect I’m hiding at the Carlyle. They stopped staying there a while ago, after the penthouse was complete.
My phone vibrates in my hand with a text. I turn on the sound and scroll through the list of them, my stomach in my throat.
Mr. Assford: I need my wife at my side.
Mr. Assford: You have two minutes.
Mr. Assford: You’re embarrassing me.
Mr. Assford: Get your ass to the tent or I’ll carry you here.
Mom: Where are you?
Mom: You have disgraced me for the last time.
Pippa: Mom is devastated by your behavior. She’s having a panic attack. How could you do this to her? Lachlan looks livid. Where are you?
Dad: You have disobeyed me for the last time. When Lachlan finds you and he will, he has my permission to treat you as he wishes. You’re on your own, just like you wanted.
Mr. Assford: There is no place you can hide that I won’t find you. Consider yourself warned.
Chills slice through my bones at the last text. I can picture those aqua eyes glowing with rage. Would he hurt me? I want to believe he wouldn’t, but then, I don’t know my husband at all. Up until this afternoon, I believed he was gay.
He threatened to fuck me and expose my beautiful breasts to the wedding guests if I didn’t kiss him like his bride.
I thought he never noticed my boobs. I thought he wasn’t interested.
To know he is and has been since I was eighteen…
Lachlan will do something to me, of that I’m sure, which is why I can’t let him find me until he simmers down—way down.
I don’t reply to any of the texts, but I worry that Lachlan or my family can track my phone. My dad’s hounds found me easily enough in the past, reminding me before I went into a party or a club that I was being watched, but stopped when I moved back home and agreed to marry Lachlan.
Dad has connections with the Greenwich police too. If Lachlan was serious about finding me, he could use my dad’s network in addition to my phone to track me. But if I get rid of my phone, I’ll lose all my contacts. Like anyone has those memorized.
Still, I should do something, or all this will have been for nothing. Dammit.
After giving Peter a semi-true story about an arranged marriage to a monster, I talk him into stopping at a strip plaza with a bank, a T-Mobile, and a discount store Mom would never set foot in.
For an extra-large tip and my designer wedding dress for his newly engaged daughter, Peter did multiple things to help the terrified-young-woman-on-the-run story I gave him.
He let me snap pictures of the contacts with his phone before discarding mine.
The only additional thing I’d need is my bank app and password, which I chose years ago and know by heart.
Peter then bought me a new phone, a dress and purse from the discount store, waited outside the SUV while I changed, and put my slightly mangled wedding gown in the back. According to Peter, his daughter sews and can fix the snag.
The maxi dress he picked out for me is awful.
The top half is white, and the bottom half has a blue and white diamond pattern.
If Alice in Wonderland and Jessica Rabbit had a dress baby, this would be it.
He was probably stressed and grabbed the first thing he could find.
I should consider myself lucky that he’d agreed to help me at all.
But this dress has more than design flaws.
It has zero support and does nothing to conceal my breasts.
I didn’t ask Peter to buy me a bra. It didn’t cross my mind because the wedding gown had one built-in.
Now, I wish I remembered I needed one, no matter how awkward the request would have been.
My lace thong isn’t helping either. It’s not seamless so the outline shows through the clingy material.
I can’t believe I’m going to walk into the Carlyle dressed like a Mad Hatter version of Pretty Woman.
We stop at a bank before leaving the strip plaza. I withdraw cash, stuffing it into the small purse Peter bought me that’s shaped like a poodle with a red bow.
Once again, I’m thankful that my trust fund was signed over to me or else none of this would be possible. Since Lachlan signed it over to me, neither he nor my dad can block my access. His act of generosity by granting my wish shows how little he feared I’d do something this extreme.
Maybe after a safe amount of time has passed or I can convince Lachlan to leave me be, I can book a room at Adelaide’s family hotel. The Sea House is in Rhode Island. I would have booked it first, but it seems too easy a place for my dad or Lachlan to find me.