MARRIED TO MY ENEMY

RUNAWAY


CHAPTER 1: RUNAWAY


Ximena POV


The plane touches down in Bali and my heart is beating so loud I can hear it in my ears.

I jerk awake. My cheek is stuck to the cold window. My mouth tastes bad, like old coffee and fear. My neck hurts so much I can barely turn it. For a second I don’t know where I am. Everything feels blurry and heavy.

Then it hits me.

Bali.

I actually made it.

I press my forehead harder against the glass. Outside it’s pitch black and raining heavily. The runway lights look blurry through the water running down the window. My hands won’t stop shaking. They haven’t stopped shaking for two whole days now.

My whole body hurts my back, my legs, my shoulders, even my feet. This is the first time I’ve ever flown economy. Not first class with the big seats and champagne. Not on our private jet with my father’s guards watching me. Just normal economy class like everyone else.

Three long flights. Two fake names. One best friend who risked everything to help me escape.

I flew as Sofia from Milan to Paris. As Maria from Paris to Singapore. And as nobody from Singapore to here. No special treatment. No one knew who I was. The seat next to me smelled like instant noodles the entire way. A baby cried for nine hours straight. The man beside me fell asleep and drooled on my shoulder. I didn’t even complain. I just sat there quietly, trying not to cry.

I kept looking behind me in every airport.

In Paris, I thought I saw one of my father’s men tall, black suit, earpiece in his ear. My heart literally stopped. I ran into a bathroom stall, locked the door, and just breathed for twenty minutes, counting every breath so I wouldn’t pass out. In Singapore, every tall man made me jump. I walked super fast with my head down, clutching my bag so tight my fingers hurt. I kept expecting someone to grab my arm and drag me back home.

But no one came.

I was just another tired girl dragging a big suitcase through the crowd. For the first time in my entire life, being invisible felt amazing. No bodyguards. No drivers. No one watching my every move.

The plane doors finally open and the air hits me like a warm, wet blanket. It’s hot and humid. It smells like rain, flowers, and jet fuel all mixed together. My hair sticks to my neck right away. My cheap dress feels damp already.

The airport is almost empty. It’s almost midnight. The big clock on the wall says 11:47. The ceiling fans turn slowly above us. My sandals slap loudly against the shiny floor as I walk toward baggage claim, trying my best to look normal.

I know what I look like right now. Long dark hair twisted into a messy bun, brown eyes red from no sleep and too much crying, lips dry and cracked. I’m wearing a simple white dress I bought at a night market in Singapore. It cost almost nothing. It’s too big on me and the tag is still scratching my back. I left it there on purpose a reminder that nothing in my life is perfect anymore.

I also bought this ugly pink suitcase covered in big bright flowers. Paid cash. It’s not designer. It’s loud and cheap. No one will look twice at it. That was the whole point.

When my bag finally comes around the carousel, I grab it fast. My hands are still shaking. All I want right now is to get to the hotel, lock the door, and feel safe for a few hours.

Then my phone buzzes in my hand.

My heart jumps into my throat. Only one person has this number.

Mom.

The messages light up the screen one after another.

Ximena, please come back. Your father will understand.
Ximena, I’m so worried. Where are you?
Ximena I love you baby. Please answer me.

I roll my eyes even though my chest feels tight. She’s not really worried about me. She’s scared of what my father will do to her when he finds out his special daughter ran away one month before her wedding.

This was never about love. It was always business. My dad gets Matteo Moretti’s ports in Europe. The Morettis get to brag that their son married a Bianchi. I was just the price they agreed on. I was sold.

My father doesn’t care if I’m happy. He only cares about his name and his power. He has three sons from my mom Leo, Alexander, and Carlos. He loves them more than anything. Girls are just tools to him. He has twelve daughters from different women. He hides us until he needs us for alliances. Every single one of us gets married young. No choice. Just “get dressed, your groom is here.”

I watched my sisters go through it. Carla cried the whole way down the aisle last summer while my mom whispered to me, “Smile for the pictures, Ximena. This is your future too.”

I’m twenty now, and my father finally decided it’s my turn. He spent years grooming me to be the perfect wife for the Morettis quiet, obedient, beautiful. The perfect vase.

Last week Matteo took me to dinner in Milan. He showed up late, smelling like drugs and perfume that wasn’t mine. He didn’t apologize. He just sat there scrolling i********:, liking pictures of girls in bikinis the entire time. When he finally looked at me, he didn’t ask about my day or my dreams. He just gave me the rules.

“You’ll quit your charity work. You’ll stay home. You’ll give me sons. And you will not embarrass me.”

I wanted to throw up on his expensive suit.

That night I called Chloe. She’s been my best friend since we were seven. She didn’t ask too many questions. She just brought me a burner phone, a thick envelope of cash, and booked the tickets under fake names. I didn’t even tell her I was going to Bali. It’s safer that way. If my father finds out she helped me, he will destroy her.

I stare at my mom’s messages. My throat feels tight. I type fast before I can change my mind.

“Mom, please stop. I need this. I will be back soon.”

I hit send.

Then I flip the phone over, pop off the back cover with shaking fingers, and pull out the SIM card. It shines under the airport lights for one second the very last piece connecting me to Ximena Bianchi.

I crush it angrily between my teeth and drop the broken pieces into the trash can.

It’s gone.

A heavy weight lifts off my chest. For the first time in years, I can take a full, deep breath. The air feels different. Lighter.

I’m still holding my dead phone when I turn to leave.

And I walk straight into someone.

Hard.

He’s moving fast, pulling a black suitcase. I crash into his chest and stumble backward. My sandal twists painfully. My phone flies out of my hand and slides across the shiny floor.

Before I can fall, a strong hand shoots out and grabs my wrist. His grip is firm, warm, and rough. He holds me steady for half a second, then lets go like touching me burned him.

“Watch where you’re going,” he growls. He doesn’t even stop walking.

I’m shocked. No one talks to me like that.

“Excuse me?” I say loudly. “You ran into me.”

He stops. Turns around slowly.

And I forget how to breathe.

He’s tall. Much taller than Matteo. Dark messy hair like he’s been running his hands through it all day. White shirt wrinkled, sleeves pushed up over strong arms. And his eyes sharp, tired, angry green eyes that seem to see right through me.

He bends down, picks up my phone, and drops it back into my hand. His fingers brush against mine for a moment.

Then he looks me up and down my cheap wrinkled dress, messy hair, ugly pink suitcase. His mouth twists into something that isn’t quite a smile.

“Sorry, princess,” he says. The word sounds like an insult. “Didn’t know the airport was your personal runway.”

My face gets hot. “At least I was looking where I was going.”

He raises one eyebrow. “Right. Because staring at your phone at midnight is really smart.”

“I was checking my hotel,” I mutter. I hate how small my voice sounds.

“Wow,” he says. “Tough life. Lost little tourist in Bali.”

“Don’t call me that.”

He puts his hands up in mock surrender. “Fine, princess. Watch where you walk next time.”

He turns his back on me and walks away, pulling his black suitcase behind him like I don’t matter at all.

I stand there frozen in the middle of the empty baggage claim, my wrist still warm from where he touched me.

Who does he think he is?

In my world, men either kiss up to me because I’m a Bianchi or they’re terrified of my father. No one has ever just walked away from me like I was nothing.

He didn’t flirt. He didn’t ask my name. He didn’t care who I was.

And strangely… I think I liked it.

For the first time in my life, I wasn’t Ximena Bianchi, the mafia princess, the heiress, the bargaining chip.

I was just a normal girl in a cheap dress with an ugly suitcase.

And no one in this country knows where I am.

I take a deep breath, grip the handle of my pink suitcase, and walk out into the warm Balinese night.

I am free.