She ran.
She was a blur of white lace, a comet of her own destruction, fleeing the epicenter of the blast.
The door to Room 305 was open behind her.
"Aurora!"
Liam’s voice. Not pleading. Not apologetic. It was a roar of pure, unadulterated fury. A command.
The sound of it, the sheer, arrogant possession in that one word, did not make her stop. It made her faster.
She ran, not as a bride, but as prey.
She didn't run to the grand staircase. She ran to the back, to the narrow, steep service stairs she had climbed just minutes before.
Her silk heels, the ones chosen to match her dress, were a betrayal. Her foot slipped on the polished wood of the landing, and she fell hard against the wall, her shoulder striking the plaster.
A gasp, sharp and painful, tore from her, but she made no ot
