Runaway Bride:A Deal Gone Wrong

Abigail's POV The Sterling Bar was alive tonight. It was lit up with electric energy that seemed to roll deep inside my own restless soul. The lights bathed the packed room in shades of crimson and gold, casting long shadows that danced to the thump of music coming from the speakers. The air was heavy with the mingling scents of expensive cologne, cheap perfume, and spilled whiskey, topped off with the low hum of chatter and occasional bursts of wild laughter. My shift had barely hit the halfway mark, but already my feet were aching in protest and my hands felt sticky from all the spilled drinks. "Abigail! "Table five needs a refill on their cocktails!" Jacques, the bar manager, yelled from across the counter. His voice had that edge, the high-pitched, shrill impatience to be slitting through this room. "I've got it!" I called back, already reaching for a tray with the ease of a longtime pro and making my way through the crowd. My black uniform clung to me, the satin sticking to my body tighter than I liked, outlining more than I liked to show. It was an outfit I learned to live with because tips here paid better than anyplace else, and I needed every dollar for my mother's medical bills. Balancing the tray in one hand, I wove through the sea of patrons, my gaze snagging on the man in the corner booth. I hadn't seen him come in, but now he seemed to command the room, even in silence. He sat alone, the shadows from the dim lighting framing his angular jaw and the faint smirk playing on his lips. He was tall, even seated, and had broad shoulders encased in a well-tailored suit that screamed money. His hair was strawberry-blonde in color, catching the light, but what really caught my attention was his eyes, how his steely gray eyes cut through the murkiness of the bar like some hard and unbending presence. Genesis Donovan. His name was spoken in hushed whispers among the staff. A billionaire Alpha with a reputation as cold as the Arctic wind. He came here rarely, and when he did, he always came alone. Nobody dared come near him unless it was absolutely necessary, and even then, it was with palpable trepidation. Tonight, it seemed, it was my turn to face the man in the corner. I swallowed hard and readjusted my grip on the tray. Just do your job, Abigail. My pulse had picked up as I walked over to his table. He was a magnet, some unseen force that was both drawing me closer and making my feet want to move in the other direction. I halted a few feet from him and spoke, although my chest was so tight I could hardly breathe. Evening, sir. Anything I can help you with? He looked up at me, and for a moment, the world dropped away to the storm-gray eyes. Something sparked in his expression—interest, maybe—but it died in an instant, replaced by the impervious mask. "Whiskey. "Neat," he rumbled, a low voice cutting through the din of the surrounding pub. I nodded, my eyes stuck to the tray as I scratched his order onto the paper. "Right away." I turned on my heel, letting out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. Palms damp, I turned back to the bar to give him a drink. "He gives you the death glare?" Timothy's teasing voice came from beside me. My best friend was leaning against the counter, a knowing grin on his face. His lavender-dyed hair stood out in the sea of dark tones around us, his flamboyant personality a beacon of light in my otherwise gray existence. "He's… intense," I admitted, pouring the whiskey into a glass with careful precision. "Intense is putting it mildly," Timothy quipped, but his grin faltered when he saw me fidgeting nervously. "Don't let him get to you, babe. You've handled worse than him." I nodded, feeling a little better for his show of support, and carried the drink over to Genesis's table. This time, I kept my eyes on the tray as I set the glass in front of him. "Enjoy," I muttered, turning to go. "Thank you, Miss…?" The question brought me up short. "Reynolds," I told him, looking back. His eyes hung on me a beat longer than they needed to, and then he nodded and turned back to his drink. Hours later, the crowd had thinned, and the pulsating energy of the bar had dimmed to a languid rhythm. My feet hurt, and I'd much rather have clocked out and fallen into bed. Timothy had other plans. "Come on, Abigail! One dance before we call it a night," he wheeled, dragging me onto the little dance floor by my hand. "Timothy, no," I said, my defenses crumbling under the look in his pleading eyes and exaggerated pout. "Please," he whined again, sticking his bottom lip out so far he almost looked comical. "You have never danced with me again. One song, just one, promise." I caved in. "I wasn't going to win this fight. "Okay, fine. One song." Timothy beamed and pulled me onto the dance floor just as a sultry pop song started playing. At first, I was stiff, I was over aware of the few remaining patrons staring at us. Then, little by little, Timothy's infectious energy began to chip at my inhibitions. When the beat dropped into one of my favorite songs, something inside me snapped. I let go. Now my swaying to the rhythm, hips swiveling to smooth sensual motion. My waist was a ring of circles, perfect, as music pulsed to appear through my veins and deep inside me laughed and tossed my tawny head. I can dance and just forget about everything in this world around me. I am good at that. Now with more confidence in my butchecks, softer to twerk on, adding to the cheers of the crowd. "You killed it!" said Timothy as he handed me a bottle of water when the song ended. Breathless but exhilarated, my skin aflame with heat, we stumbled off the dance floor. "You're ridiculous," I said, giggling as we made our way to the bar. "And you're fabulous," Timothy retorted with a broad grin from ear to ear. "I'll go grab our stuff from out back. Wait here." I nodded, still trying to catch my breath, but that moment of calm didn't last long. "Miss Reynolds.” That deep voice sent chills down my spine. I turned to find Genesis standing before me, his large frame casting its shadow over me. His light gray eyes turned dark with intentions, and just because of that, my heart started pounding fast. "Do you want something?" I asked, coming off timer than I was meant to. "Yes," he said, very plainly, but did not back away from meeting my eyes. "I would have you sit with me." I blinked, startled by the request, but his tone, though, had left no room to refuse; it was simple, quiet orders, yet had set me both upset and, at the same time, curious. Not saying a word, he turned and led me to his table. I followed and sat down at his table across from him, feeling very small against his bulk. "Are you always this intimidating?" I blurted before I even knew the question was hovering in my mind. His lips quivered in what might have been the ghost of a smile. "Only when necessary." Such talk and tensions would melt away. He asked about work, my hobby, and whatnot, such that, before realizing it, the frankness that had made me open up so much to this man behind his icy manner at the office was paradoxically enough to make me feel so seen, yet reveal so much about him. And when he smiled, just a faint, rare thing it would take your breath away. His face was more than just devastatingly handsome, as the curve of his lips softened his sharp features. Then, without giving me a chance to prepare, a word spoken in a low and even tone- "Would you stay overnight with me?" Those few words hovered, poised, just one breath shy of being spoken into the charged, electrified atmosphere between us. I gawked, raking his eyes for a thread of amusement that was subtly veiled by the curve of his smile and failed to see. Genesis Donovan wasn't the sort of man who made jokes.