POV: EMMA
The whole chapel reeks of funeral flowers. There are white roses everywhere I look. Orchids, too—flown in from Singapore, because apparently nothing says "forever" like flowers with their own passport. Gold candelabras stretch halfway to the ceiling, screaming money. The marble floor's so shiny I can see my own reflection in it, pale as a ghost, eyes wide with panic.
My mother's nails dig into my wrist, hard enough to leave dents. "Stop fidgeting," she hisses.
"I can't breathe." The corset under this absurdly expensive dress is squeezing the life out of me. Every shallow breath makes me dizzy.
"You'll breathe after the vows." Her voice is cold, wrapped in a cloud of Chanel No. 5. "This marriage cements Lawson Holdings for another generation. This is bigger than you, Emma. This is legacy."
Legacy. The word tastes bitter on my tongue.
I want to tell her legacy doesn't mean squat if you're suffocating. That I'd trade every cent for a shot at freedom. But I've learned my lesson, arguing with Catherine Lawson is a lost cause. She only hears rebellion.
Around us, two hundred guests fill the pews, old money, finance titans, CEOs. Nobody actually cares why we're here. It's not about love. It's about sealing the deal. Lawson plus Crane equals a business empire for the ages.
And me? I'm just the dowry.
"Emma." My mother's grip tightens. "Sebastian is waiting."
I glance up at the altar. There stands Sebastian Crane, looking like he just stepped off the cover of GQ, all tailored tux and polite smile. We've spoken four times, three about stocks, one about how he wants three kids, preferably boys.
"You will walk down that aisle," my mother whispers, yanking my veil into place. "You will say your vows. And you will not embarrass this family."
The string quartet starts up. Everyone stands.
My father materializes at my side, offering his arm. James Lawson, self-made billionaire, Wall Street legend, a man who built an empire from nothing. He looks at me with something almost like guilt.
"You don't have to do this," he murmurs.
My mother's head snaps around. "James."
"She's twenty-four, Catherine. Not a chess piece."
"She's a Lawson. Lawsons honor their obligations." My mother's glare could cut glass. "Walk."
Dad's jaw clenches, but he doesn't fight her. He never does.
I take his arm, because I can't think of anything else to do.
The doors swing open. Every head swivels my way. Phones come out, snapping photos for gossip columns and Instagram alike, proof that the Lawson heiress is finally being tamed.
One step. Two. The silk train of my dress drags behind me, ghostlike.
My heart's thudding so loud I can barely hear the music. The aisle stretches ahead like some kind of gauntlet. Sebastian's waiting at the end, face unreadable. For him, this is just another business deal, another contract to sign.
I'm about twenty feet away when it hits me, the future laid out like a prison sentence. Dinners without love. Separate bedrooms. Children I hardly know, raised by strangers while I smile for the cameras and pretend it's all just fine. A life that sparkles on the outside, but feels empty inside.
Ten feet.
The priest opens his bible. Sebastian reaches for my hand. His palm is ice-cold.
"Dearly beloved," the priest begins.
I can't hear him over the blood roaring in my ears.
"Do you, Emma Catherine Lawson, take Sebastian Alcott Crane to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
Silence.
Every eye turns to me. My mother's glare burns into my back. Sebastian's grip tightens, impatient.
The priest clears his throat. "Miss Lawson?"
I open my mouth.
"No."
The word seems to echo off the marble.
Gasps ripple through the crowd. My mother goes sheet-white. Sebastian's face twists, first confusion, then anger.
"What did you say?" His voice is low and dangerous.
"I said no." Louder. Clearer. "I'm not marrying you."
"Emma." My mother's voice cracks like a whip. "Stop this right now."
But I'm already moving. I yank my hand away, bouquet tumbling to the floor, white roses scattering like shrapnel.
"Emma!" My mother lunges, but I'm gone.
I scoop up my skirt and run, past the shocked guests, the clicking cameras, past my father, who actually looks proud. The chapel doors slam behind me as I burst into the sunlight.
Security scrambles. "Miss Lawson, wait!"
But I'm already halfway down the steps, heels clacking on stone. I rip the veil off, pins tearing at my hair. There's a black sedan at the curb, just like Savannah promised.
I dive into the car. "Go. Now."
The driver doesn't hesitate. Tires screech and we speed away. Through the rear window, I see my mother storming out of the chapel, screaming my name. Security chasing, but it's too late.
"Where to, miss?"
"Airport." My voice is shaking. "Private terminal. Lawson hangar."
He nods and floors it.
I stare out the window as the city blurs by, skyscrapers, penthouses, all the glittering trappings of the life I'm supposed to want, fading into the distance.
My phone blows up, calls from my mother, texts from Sebastian's lawyer, a flood of tabloid alerts.
Lawson Heiress Runs From Wedding. Billionaire Bride Bolts. Emma Lawson Makes Her Escape.
I silence my phone and shove it deep in my purse.
At the airport, I ditch the dress in the lounge, fifty grand worth of silk crumpled on the floor, a monument to every lie. I pull on jeans, a hoodie, sneakers. My hair falls wild around my shoulders.
In the mirror, I barely recognize myself.
Good.
The jet's waiting, fueled and ready. I board without looking back.
"Destination?" the pilot asks.
"Tennessee. Knoxville." My voice is steady. "And don't file the flight plan. Not yet."
He pauses, then nods. "Yes ma'am."
The engines roar. We hurtle down the runway and lift off. I press my forehead to the glass, watching New York shrink away below.
Somewhere down there, my mother is calling every lawyer in the book. Sebastian's probably threatening lawsuits. Dad, he's probably pouring himself a stiff drink.
And me?
I'm finally free.
The seatbelt sign blinks off. For the first time in hours, I actually breathe, deep, real, and unfiltered. No corset. No vows. No cage.
My phone buzzes. Last time before I shut it off.
A text from Savannah: Did you do it?
I type: I ran.
Her reply's instant: Good. Come home.
Home. Not the penthouse or the Hamptons estate. Home is a tiny town in the Smokies where nobody cares about my last name. Where Savannah and I spent a single, perfect summer before my mother hauled me back to reality.
I'm going back.
And this time, nobody's dragging me away.
The plane climbs higher, through the clouds. My old life disappears beneath me.
I don't know what's waiting in Tennessee. I don't know how long I can hide before they come looking.
But for the first time in my life, the choice is mine.
Even if I'm terrified.
Even if I'm walking away from billions.
Even if I'm not sure who I am without the Lawson name.
The plane levels. The flight attendant offers champagne. I take it.
"To new beginnings," I whisper.
And I drink.