The Billionaire’s Cursed Bride

Rain poured like the sky had decided to drown the city. My sneakers slapped against the wet pavement as I ran, breathless, heart pounding—not from the cold, but from the three debt collectors chasing me. “Stop running, Evans!” one of them shouted. His voice was the kind of deep that promised pain. I turned into a narrow alley, only to find it blocked by a high fence. My stomach sank. Perfect. Just perfect. The men cornered me, their grins sharp. “Pay up, or we’ll take it in blood.” Before I could answer, headlights cut through the rain. A sleek black limousine rolled to a stop beside us, the kind of car you only see in movies. The tinted window slid down slowly, revealing a man with eyes like a winter storm—cold, silver, and impossibly intense. He didn’t speak to the men. He didn’t speak to me. He just… stared. And I swear, the rain stopped around him. “Get lost,” he finally said, his voice low but carrying the kind of authority that made grown men flinch. The debt collectors exchanged nervous glances and backed away without another word. The limo door opened. I should have run. I should have said thank you and left. Instead, I found myself standing there, frozen, as the man stepped out. His suit was perfectly tailored, his black hair slicked back, a faint scar tracing his jawline. “You’re Lyra Evans,” he said. Not a question. My throat tightened. “Who are you?” His lips curved—not into a smile, but something darker. “The man who’s going to marry you.” Lightning cracked above us. And just like that, I knew… my life was about to end.