The Stolen Bride

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Cara

The sunset really is prettier over the ocean, I think as I wash the drying blood from my face. My skin hurts all over. I have bruises, scrapes, and the mark of my new husband’s wedding ring gouged across my cheekbone. But through the yacht bathroom’s row of tiny windows, I can see the blood-orange sun sinking into a sea of brass, crimson, and gold and remember that the world can still be beautiful.

Even if this little corporate princess’s happily-ever-after just turned into Hell.

It didn’t start out this way. It never does. Before the drive out to the Miami pier and our send-off on Richard’s yacht, I was so happy. My father was proud of me for going through with the match he found for me, my mother was proud of me for “saving myself for someone who was worth it,” Richard seemed to love me, and I was certain that my future was now secure.

What a difference eight hours makes. I keep cleaning myself up, numb, mechanical, as if I just got some normal injury instead of the reality check from Hell.

This is not how wedding nights are supposed to go. I don’t have much experience with marriage, but I know that much.

Richard and I had an early dinner with tilapia and champagne and talked afterward as he steered the yacht toward the middle of the Caribbean. Our courtship had been “a whirlwind”, as close to an arranged marriage as my father could corner me into, and we were still getting to know each other.

I had a crush on him though… until the second time he punched me. Richard Gamble is charming, tall, fit. He may be over twice my age, his blond hair dyed and transplanted and his face tight from plastic surgery, but when your parents aim you at nothing but billionaires, well,a husband over thirty is a given. He might honestly have been one of the younger ones my parents were pushing me toward.

I wouldn’t have minded. I like older men. But apparently, some guys age without maturing. And some seem to be born without souls.

It shocked me, more than hurt me, when the first blow landed. I asked Richard what he thought he was doing, and he shut me up with another punch. After that, he didn’t let up; all I could do was try to crawl away from him while he kept hitting me, kicking me, and calling me a w***e.

Not sure where he got the w***e part from. I’m a virgin, never even been kissed before today, abut he called me it after I begged him to stop hurting me. I guess things are their opposite in his head: lies are truths, words reverse their meaning, and you love your new wife by doing...this.

My idea of a wedding night was that it’d be awkward, but sweet, with him gently coaxing me out of my shell and helping me have a good first experience. His idea of a wedding night was an entire bottle of vodka followed by hard hair-pulling and an attempt at surprise anal with no lube. I screamed and recoiled from the sudden, painful invasion. I didn’t get very far before I fell off the bed to get away from him.

And then the beating started. I wasn’t supposed to say no. Ever. He yelled that as the blows landed. Told me that I belonged to him. I did what he said. Otherwise, he would kill me and dump me over the side.

It ended when he got tired enough to stop swinging. He half-threw me into the bathroom and told me to get cleaned up. I’ve been locked in here ever since, taking as much time as I possibly could, following orders.

I don’t cry. I’m in too much shock. Instead, I turn back to the mirror and meet my eyes in it, just to make sure I still can.

Their bright green clashes with the developing bruises, which stand out red and purple against my pale skin. I’m small and delicate-looking with pale blonde ringlets and an ingenue’s look, that right now is tainted by fear and disgust.

But I'm not disgusted with myself.

It’s tempting to blame myself. It would let me pretend that I had control over what just happened. But I have no power in this situation. I let myself get steered into it by my parents, but could anyone blame me? It was what they raised me to do, who they raised me to be.

Besides, beating myself up over all of this won’t help me survive. I have to face the facts. I’m trapped on a yacht in the middle of the ocean with a violent drunk who thinks he owns me. There’s no way to call for help, and unless I get very lucky, no way to escape.

That means playing along and trying to keep him happy until I’m back on land and can bolt. I know my dad will eat this guy alive once he realizes that he was tricked into handing me over to a drunken scumbag. I just have to get back there, but I want to run now. As tears run into the smear of blood across my cheek and I struggle to clean it all off and still look presentable, all I can think about is fleeing, running screaming out the door. But I don’t. I can’t.

The plan unfolds in my brain around all the silent screaming. Getting the hell away from Richard, calling Dad for help, getting an annulment and a restraining order, pressing charges, and ruining Richard’s reputation. I can do all of that—but first, I have to survive.

That’s the logical part of my brain. I’m amazed it’s still working, racing away while the rest of me goes 'Oh, God. Ohmigod. What happened?' and cries inside like a child.

Richard yells at me through the door for a while, and then I hear him retrieve another bottle from the bar. I keep quiet and try to stop the bleeding. Now that I’ve managed it and washed off the mess, I’m trying to figure out what to put over the bruises.

Do I try to cover them? And if I do, do I then put on makeup? Or do I leave the bruises exposed, perhaps with some ironic lipstick? It’s a hot, sticky night and I don’t have any lipstick that pairs well with bruises.

I can’t make that decision yet. It leads me to think about how I’ll greet Richard once I leave the safety of the bathroom, and that’s something I can’t let myself think about right now. I step into the shower instead, scrubbing roughly to distract from the pain in my face and ribs.

I wash off my perfume, the last traces of blood, and every trace of Richard on me. I still remember his bruising grip and the embarrassingly tiny d**k he tried to shove into me. I scrub and scrub, but the memory doesn't fade. I manage, after a while, to feel less dirty.

Now that the shock is wearing off, anger starts to simmer. I feel it as I towel off, and I hear him let out a belch in the cabin outside. Bastard. I’d like to burn this f*****g yacht with him trapped inside of it.

His yacht is big enough that I could easily find another place to sleep if I slipped past him. But he won’t allow it; I don’t even have to ask. I have to find a way to mollify him until we're on land again.

I dress slowly. My slip is torn up to the thigh from his f****d-up idea of foreplay, but it's all I have. I pull it on and try to ignore the way the supple silk feels like sandpaper on my wounds.

It will heal. I can still move, nothing is broken, and my face looks worse than it feels—except of course for the heartbreak.

This was my life up until now. Everything my parents raised me to do—from finishing school, to what hobbies I pursued, to how I carried myself, wore my hair, chose my clothes...all of it was grooming me to be the perfect little princess, the perfect bait to snare more wealth and power for my family.

It didn’t bother me that I would end up a trophy wife for a man like Richard. My mother chose the same path. I never questioned it.

That was a stupid mistake, but whether I can be blamed for it or not, I have to learn from it if I am going to survive. I don’t do Stockholm Syndrome, so that means finding a way to fight.

Outside, I hear the faint clatter of a bottle hitting the floor. I freeze in place and listen very, very carefully. Has he drunk himself unconscious? Am I that lucky?

Maybe soon. I finish cleaning up from my shower, careful not to leave a mess, just like I was trained. It's especially important now. He'll hit me again no matter what I do, but I don't want to give him an excuse.

The first snore from outside makes my heart lift like Heaven itself has opened up and blessed me. It's followed by more: thick, gurgling and regular, the snore of an unconscious drunk. I smile grimly and look around, gathering up my few belongings before opening the door carefully and slipping out.

The yacht rocks softly in the water, leaving me wobbly and a touch queasy. I'm still getting used to walking on a shifting surface, so I creep out extra-carefully, one hand staying on the wall for balance.

Richard is passed out, sprawled on his back across the bed, his blond hair sticking up, showing white roots in places, and the Astroturf look of hair implants elsewhere. His mouth is wide open, and he's snoring loudly.

I stare at him in contempt and quickly look around. If I had a weapon, I would kill him without even thinking about it, and dump his body over the side. It's all that he deserves after what he did to me.

But instead, I look around, trying to sort out what valuables I should take with me. I have no idea where the nearest island is, but I doubt it's US territory. I might have to bribe my way back home.

The sun is almost down. I leave the lights off, looking around solely by the dull red-orange glow from the windows. I change into a pair of safari shorts, a cream tank top, and my hiking sandals. I stuff my pockets with my wedding jewelry, looking up at him every few seconds.

He doesn’t move except to draw air and occasionally belch. Finishing up, I glance his way one last time and think of grabbing one of the fluffy down pillows and clamping it over his face. I think of smashing the booze bottles over his head one at a time until he’s knocked out and helpless, and then setting the bed on fire.

I think of a million violent horrors that up until now, have only existed in movies for me—just like having the crap kicked out of me by a man who was supposed to love me. It feels good to admit that I want him dead, but I don’t act on it; I guess I’m just not that kind of girl.

Instead, I grab his wallet and fancy diamond-studded watch, stuff them in my purse, and head for the deck. The yacht has to have some kind of emergency life raft or something I can use to get the hell out of here.

And once I do, I’m calling Dad, getting back to the States, and going public with what happened. I’m not just going to leave Richard—I’m going to ruin him.