Prologue: The Runaway Bride
The world was a blur of white satin and desperate, heaving sobs. The delicate lace of her wedding gown, once a symbol of a future she never wanted, was now torn and filthy, snagging on the rough bark of the oak tree in his backyard.
Amaya Snow, at eighteen, was supposed to be marrying her cousin today. A strategic, emotionless union to please the families, to merge businesses, to be a "good girl." But her heart, the one that had always been too loud, too delusional, too full of fantasy, had rebelled. It had screamed one name, and one name only, as they tried to slide the gold band onto her finger.
Aris.
So, she ran. She ran from the stifling hall, from the expectant eyes of hundreds, from the smug smile of her cousin. She ran past shocked guests, her silk train ripping behind her like a forgotten promise. She ran all the way to the one place her heart called home: the neat, middle-class house next door, the house with the medical textbooks stacked in the window.
And now she stood before him, her chest burning, her vision swimming with tears. He was on his porch, frozen mid-step, his keys in his hand. He was dressed in simple scrubs, having just come back from a hospital shift. He looked tired, his glasses slightly askew, his messy hair a dark halo under the porch light. To her, he had never looked more like a savior.
"Aris," she gasped, her voice raw. "I... I can't do it. I can't marry him."
She watched his face, searching for the warmth she'd seen in her thousand daydreams. But his expression didn't soften. It hardened. His sharp jawline, usually a feature she traced with her eyes, was clenched tight.
"Amaya," he said, and his voice was like ice. It was the voice he used when she was being particularly childish, the one that always made her feel small. "What have you done?"
"I ran away. For you. It was always for you." The words tumbled out, a desperate, heartfelt confession laid bare at his feet.
He took a step back, as if her words were physically repelling him. His gaze swept over her wedding gown, a costume of societal pressure, and his eyes held nothing but cold, clinical disapproval. "Go back, Amaya. This is a tantrum. A delusion. You are a child throwing a fit because you didn't get your way."
The words hit her with the force of a physical blow. A child. After all this time, that was all he saw.
"But I love you," she whispered, the last of her hope crumbling.
His reply was final, absolute. "And I have a career to focus on. A future that doesn't include causing a scandal by abducting a teenager from her own wedding. Now, go home."
He turned, unlocked his door, and stepped inside. The soft, definitive click of the lock was the sound of her heart shattering.
She didn't remember the walk back. The tears were a torrent now, blinding her. She stumbled up the driveway of her own house, the house that should have been empty, quiet in the aftermath of the wedding.
It was not quiet.
It was chaos.
The grand marquee was half-collapsed, tables overturned, food and shattered glass littering the lawn like the aftermath of a storm. And in the center of the wreckage stood her mother, her own beautiful mother, her face contorted with a fury Amaya had never seen.
"You!" her mother shrieked, spotting her. "You selfish, foolish girl! Look what you've done!"
Before Amaya could form a word, her mother was upon her, gripping her arms painfully. "Your father... the shame... the things people were saying... He collapsed. His heart couldn't take it. They've taken him to the hospital. If he dies, Amaya, this is on you. This is all your fault!"
The world tilted on its axis. The fairytale had not just ended; it had exploded, and the shrapnel had hit the one person she never meant to hurt. As her mother dragged her towards a waiting car, her sobs now silent, hollow things, Amaya took one last look at the ruin she had created.
She had run for love, for a fantasy. And all she had found was a cold, hard reality, a broken father, a mother's hatred, and the devastating knowledge that the man she loved saw her as nothing more than a childish mistake.