Chapter 1 - Savannah
The worst part about running for your life in a wedding dress isn't the looks you get, though those are plentiful. It's not even the way the elaborate beading digs into your ribs with every gasping breath, or how your bare feet keeps touching on the hot pavement because you had no time to get your shoes.
No, the worst part is that everyone thinks you're having the time of your fucking life.
"Congratulations!" a woman shouts as I stumble past her outside what I think is the Bellagio. Or maybe it's the Aria. I've been walking for two hours and the casinos have all started bleeding together into one continuous blur of lights and noise.
I force a smile. "Thank you."
My phone vibrates again in my death grip. I don't look at it. I already know what it says. Some variation of what the last forty-seven messages have said.
*Where are you?*
*Come back.*
*You're being ridiculous.*
*Think about what you're doing to your family.*
*Derek is worried sick.*
That last one was from my mother. Derek is worried sick. Not *are you okay* or *what happened* or *did he hurt you again* because we don't talk about that. We decided two years ago that we weren't going to talk about that.
I decided I was done not talking about it approximately four hours ago, standing in the bridal suite at the Four Seasons, looking at myself in the mirror while my sisters fussed with my veil.
The makeup artist had done an amazing job covering the bruise on my jaw. You couldn't see it at all. I'd smiled at my reflection and felt nothing but the echo of Derek's knuckles against my face three days ago, and the casual way he'd told me I needed to learn when to shut my fucking mouth.
Then he'd kissed my forehead and gone to his bachelor party.
My sister Melissa had squeezed my shoulder. "You look perfect, Sav. Derek's going to lose his mind when he sees you."
And something in me had just... broken. Or maybe it had finally healed enough to break properly. I don't know. I just know I looked at that beautiful stranger in the mirror, wearing a dress that cost more than my first car, about to promise forever to a man who'd put his hands around my throat hard enough to leave fingerprints, and I heard myself say, "I need a minute."
Then I grabbed my purse, walked out the side door, and ran.
I'd made it three blocks before my heel snapped. I'd stopped long enough to break the other one off. Some distant, hysteria-bright part of my brain noting that at least I'd have a matching set of broken things, and kept going.
That was two hours ago.
Now my feet are bleeding, my phone won't stop buzzing, and I'm so tired I can barely see straight. But I can't stop. If I stop, I'll have to think. If I think, I'll have to decide what the fuck I'm going to do next.
And I have absolutely no idea.
A bachelor party stumbles past me, drunk and laughing. One of them points at my dress. "Hey! Did you just get married?"
"No," I say, and it's the first honest thing I've said to a stranger all night.
They laugh like I made a joke and keep walking.
I duck into the next casino I see, desperate to get off the street, to find somewhere to sit down and catch my breath and figure out what comes next. The air conditioning hits me like a wall and I almost sob with relief.
The sign outside said Elysium. I've never heard of it, which probably means it's not one of the big ones. Fine by me. The last thing I need is to run into someone from the wedding. Half of Derek's finance buddies probably have their bachelor parties in Vegas.
The casino floor is busy but not packed. Slot machines chime and flash. Somewhere in the distance, someone cheers at a craps table. Normal Friday night in Vegas. Everyone here is either celebrating something or trying to forget something.
I'm definitely in the second category.
I spot a quiet corner near the back, away from the main floor, and make my way toward it. My feet leave small smears of blood on the patterned carpet. I should probably be more concerned about that. Add it to the list of things I'll deal with later.
