The Billionaire's Distressed Bride

The night was young, but Henry Thorne felt the opposite. He seemed to have grown ten years older in the last four hours. Driving down one of L.A’s main highways at just a few minutes past eight o'clock, he knew he had to get home as soon as possible or an obituary might be written for him the next day. He had never had to fight anything the way he was fighting to keep his eyes open as he gripped the steering wheel like his life depended on it. Motivated by his weariness, he clamped his foot on the gas and the car responded as expected. Soon, he was almost driving at twice the speed he was before, which was a little bit over the speed limit. The traffic light at the crossroads up ahead turned red as the car rushed towards it but he was moving too fast to stop. He ran the red light and a very loud and sharp honk brought him to his senses. A vigorous exercise of turning the steering wheel and a few seconds later, Henry was parked by the side of the road and trying to catch his breath. The taillights of the truck he nearly ran into glared at him from afar as the driver sped on without looking back. Henry had been just a few seconds away from needing the obituary he could clearly picture in his mind. Death was something he thought about a lot these days, and he couldn't figure out why. He started the car again and returned to the highway. His previous encounter had chased the sleepiness from him and his brain was fully functional now. He couldn't help but stomp the gas again and soon, he was driving even faster than before. Patricia would be eagerly expecting him now, but he would have to disappoint her. There's no way he could go on a date in this condition, even as that date was to mark their second marriage anniversary. Henry turned a corner and his instincts immediately kicked in. For the second time that night, he had to battle with the steering wheel to avoid a nasty incident. But this time, he wasn't going to take things lying down. Adrenaline coursing through him, he got out of the car and stormed towards the lady rooted to the spot in front of his car. She was just as shocked as he is and Henry found himself imagining her own obituary, too. She would certainly be dead if he hadn't swerved because she hadn't even made any attempt to run to safety. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Henry fired at her as he approached her. She didn't reply, and she only stared at him with innocent, fazed eyes. The next words that intended to come out of Henry's mouth died there as he saw her face clearly in the headlights. No obituary was worthy enough to carry the face of the woman standing before him. He couldn't believe he had almost hit someone as appealing to the eyes as she was. The woman finally got out of her trance-like state and muttered, “I'm sorry.” At that moment, Henry had a battle raging in him. He wanted to vent all his anger at her for making him so agitated and worried but the woman standing before him made that impossible. The fact that he was married and that his wife was waiting for him at home did nothing to rescue him from the attractive lady standing before him. “Sorry?” Henry raged on, finally regaining control of himself, “would that have been enough if I had knocked you down with my car?” The woman didn't say anything and Henry realized he was wasting his time. He put one hand on his hip, sighed and slapped his forehead. “You know what?” he said, “it's fine, forget it. You'd better be careful next time.” With that, he turned to go. The woman only blinked at what he said and she still didn't move even after he got behind the steering wheel. Henry raised his arms in a what-the-hell manner and she still didn't move. It was as if she had returned to her trance again. Left with no other choice, he pounded his fist in the center of the steering wheel and the ensuing horn startled the woman and she moved out of the road. Henry started the car and sped down the highway. Sleep was far from him now and started thinking he might still be able to go on the date with Patricia after all, if he made it home in that, that is. With that thought in his mind, he continued speeding down the highway and he was on the road leading to his mansion a few minutes later. He came to a stop in front of the gate and rolled down the window. He stuck his hand out and aimed the remote at the gate. There was a buzzing sound and the gate slowly slid to one side. He drove in, parked the car, and aimed the remote at the gate again. The front door was open but Patricia was nowhere in sight when he got into the living room. Her bag was on the table and her phone was beside it. It was obvious she was prepared for the date. He took a look at the time on his watch. Nine o'clock was twenty minutes away. Their reservation would be reallocated if they weren't there by nine but they could still make it if they left immediately. “Patricia,” he called as he headed towards the kitchen to check if she was there. No sign of her. He called her name again as he exited the kitchen and headed towards the hallway. His leg hit something as he was about to climb the stairs leading to their room and he bent to pick it. He immediately recognized the black heel he'd gotten her for her birthday a few months ago. He gave the heel a puzzled look and then he glanced up the stairs. Why was her shoe lying in the hallway? What was going on? Holding the shoe in his hand, he stopped to listen and he realized that there were muffled sounds coming from upstairs. He could remember clearly that a woman in their estate had been found dead one morning after her house had been broken into the previous night. There had been a few other cases of breaking and entering recently and the imagination of that weighed on his mind. His heart raced the same way he raced up the stairs and he continued calling his wife's name as he went. He came across the second leg of her shoe on the floor a few metres away from their bedroom door but he didn't bother to stop to pick it. “Patricia!” He called. “Patr—” He opened the door and his eyebrows creased as he met his wife adjusting her dress in front of the large mirror by the wall. She turned around to face him and smiled at him. “You're back,” she noted. “ But you're late,” she added. Henry couldn't even think of anything to say at that moment. He'd been so sure that something was wrong and he hadn't expected to see her standing so casually in front of the mirror. “Why do you look like you've seen a ghost?” She asked and beckoned to him. “Come and help me with my zipper.” He moved towards her and assisted her in pulling the zipper up. “I came across your shoes in the hallway and I thought I heard sounds coming from the room,” he replied. “Thank God yo—” The rest of the words didn't make it out of his mouth as his leg hit something protruding from under the bed. He looked down and realized that it was a leg.