Kissed by the Killer.

Prologue: A Frantic Flight. Violet Virgilson. Today was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. My wedding day. The day every little girl dreams of — white dress, walking down the aisle, smiling faces, tears of joy, forever vows. But for me? It felt like a slow death wrapped in silk and suffocated with perfume. I stood in front of the hotel mirror, lips painted in nude rose, veil pinned to perfection, eyes hollow behind layers of mascara. The dress? Gorgeous. The location? Perfect. The groom? A monster. And my heart? Screaming. I looked like a bride, but I felt like a caged bird. Somebody save me from this hell, I whispered. This hotel wasn’t mine. It wasn’t home. I practically lived with my mum, but Rudolpho insisted I stay close to the church. Said he didn’t want “any drama” or “a late bride.” God forbid I arrive at the altar two minutes late and ruin his grand spectacle. So I lodged at the most expensive hotel near the cathedral — all part of Rudolpho Ransom Reedson’s master plan. Mum wanted me to dress from home. She said it was tradition. She fought me on it, but I begged, cried, and persuaded until she gave in. I think part of her suspected the truth. Or maybe she was just tired. God, I wished Dad was here. He would’ve never let this happen. When I was twelve, my dad picked me up from boarding school for the weekend. That day, we were driving home — laughing, singing along to some old-school Whitney Houston track. Then out of nowhere — BOOM. A drunk driver, high on cocaine, came flying across the road and slammed into us. My father died instantly. I survived, but not without scars — physical and emotional. I’ve been bleeding in silence since. And now, I was about to marry another crash. Rudolpho Ransom Reedson. The kind of name that sounds like a royal curse. Rich. Handsome. Dangerous. His father was a feared mogul who raised him like a weapon. Love was weakness. Women were leverage. Control was power. Rudolpho didn’t want a wife. He wanted a pet he could parade and punish. And I was supposed to say “I do” to that? No. Hell no. The church was packed. Cameras flashed. Vows echoed. The air was so thick, I could barely breathe. Then came the moment. The pastor smiled gently. “Do you, Violet Valley Virgilson, take this man to be your lawful wedded husband? To have and to hold, in riches and in—” “No,” I said. Loud. Clear. Defiant. Gasps. Chaos. My mother was so shocked, she almost fell off her chair. I didn’t wait for the backlash — I turned and ran. Yes, in my wedding dress. Full speed. Down the aisle, past the shocked choir, out the cathedral doors. Like a bride possessed. Or free. I didn’t have a plan. Just adrenaline. I ran like my life depended on it — because it did. I couldn’t go home. I couldn’t go back to the hotel room — I’d already checked out. So I just… ran. And that’s when I collided with him. Literally. Tall. Fair. Muscular. Deep blue eyes. Leather jacket. He looked like sin himself — trouble dipped in sugar and dusted with mystery. I slammed into his chest and stumbled. He caught me, eyes narrowing. “You okay?” he asked, voice deep, smooth, dangerous. I looked up at him, panting. “I—I need help. Someone’s after my life.” He raised a brow. “You’re in a wedding dress. Did you murder the groom or just ditch him at the altar?” “The second one,” I huffed. “But I probably should’ve done the first.” He let out a low whistle. “Damn. Alright, Runaway Barbie. Let’s go.” He grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward his car — a sleek black Mustang that smelled like danger and new leather. He opened the door and tossed a bundle of clothes at me from the backseat. “Here. Change. Fast.” “You just carry spare clothes for random runaway brides?” “No,” he smirked. “But I just came from the gym. You’re lucky I’m messy.” I changed in the backseat — stripping off layers of lace and pearls and shame. Slipping into a hoodie, ripped jeans, and a new identity. I didn’t recognize myself in the rearview mirror. I looked like freedom. “What’s your name?” I asked as he started the car. He glanced at me. “You first.” “Violet.” He smirked. “Of course it is. Pretty name for a chaotic bride. I’m Vincent.” Vincent. Of course. He drove fast, weaving through traffic like he had nothing to lose. I held my breath the whole ride, adrenaline still buzzing. Finally, we got to my house. I thanked him and stepped out, unsure of what was waiting inside. Mum was already there. How?! She stood at the door like an executioner. Arms folded. Lips pursed. And before I could even say a word— SLAP! My face snapped to the side. My earring flew off. “You stupid, ungrateful girl!” she yelled. “How dare you disgrace us like this?! Do you know how many people were at that wedding?! Do you know how much money was spent?!” “Mum, he was hurting me! He—” “GO BACK TO YOUR HUSBAND!” she screamed, voice cracking. “NOW!” She slammed the door in my face. Boom. Just like that. Locked out of my house. Out of her heart. I stood there, numb. The slap still stinging. The rejection still fresh. Vincent was leaning on his car, watching the whole thing with that unreadable expression. “You done?” he asked casually. “No,” I choked. “I think I just got disowned.” “Perfect. Now you’re officially reborn.” I blinked. “What?” He tossed me a bottle of water and opened the passenger door. “Come on, Violet. The real ride’s just beginning.” And in that moment — broken, humiliated, slapped, and thrown away — I climbed into his car. I smelled danger. Not knowing I was about to fall in love with him. I had escaped the devil… And run straight into hell. It is surely... A Frantic Flight.