The Husband Hangover: Chapter One - The Runaway

I thought my life ended when I saw the video of Marcus in the vestry. I was wrong. My life ended, and something much more dangerous began, the second I climbed into his brother, Roman Vance’s SUV.

Chapter One

The Runaway

Ivy Rhodes

My wedding veil is caught on a rosebush, and I don’t even care.

I can hear the frantic murmurs of three hundred guests behind me in the manicured gardens of the St. Regis. The high-pitched, panicked ‘Ivy, wait!’ from my mother, and the heavy, guilty silence of the man I was supposed to marry five minutes ago.

I don’t stop. I keep running, my heavy silk train gathering dirt and grass stains as I sprint toward the valet stand. My lungs burn, and my eyes are stinging with tears I refuse to let fall in front of that bastard. My heart feels like it’s been put through a paper shredder.

I thought I was marrying the ‘safe’ Vance brother. Marcus. The one with the predictable career, the polished smile, and the approval of every board member in the city. Instead, I found a video on my phone, sent by an anonymous ‘friend’ of Marcus and my maid of honor in the vestry five minutes before the procession. The white lace of her dress pressed against the tuxedo I’d spent six months picking out.

The betrayal isn't just a sting; it’s a third-degree burn.

"Car," I gasp out to the valet, who is staring at me like I’ve grown a second head. I must look insane—a bride in five thousand dollars’ worth of Vera Wang, sprinting through a parking lot like the hounds of hell are on her heels. "Any car. Just get me the hell out of here."

"The lady needs a ride," a voice rumbles from the shadows of a blacked-out SUV idling at the curb.

The back window rolls down, revealing a face that is a darker, sharper, more dangerous version of the one I just left at the altar. Roman Vance. The black sheep. The brother they don't talk about at Sunday brunch. The one who walked away from the Vance fortune ten years ago and built his own empire out of spite and steel. He wasn't even invited to the wedding. I haven't seen him in three years, not since the night he told me I was making a "catastrophic mistake" by saying yes to Marcus.

"Roman?" I stumble toward the door, my heels sinking into the gravel.

"You look like you're having a bad day, Ivy," he says. His stormy grey eyes track the smudge of mascara on my cheek and the way my hands are shaking. He doesn't look surprised to see me running. He looks like he’s been waiting for the floor to fall out from under me.

He leans over and pushes the door open. "Get in. Before the circus catches up to you."

I don't hesitate. I dive into the leather-scented cool of the backseat, pulling my massive skirts in after me like a dying swan. As he hits the gas and the tires screech against the pavement, I look back at the white-clothed tables and the floral arches disappearing in the distance.

I wait for the regret to hit. It doesn't. Only a cold, crystalline rage.

"I hate them," I whisper, my voice cracking as I rip the diamond studs from my ears and hurl them onto the floor mats. "I hate every single one of them."

Roman doesn't look at me. He just keeps his eyes on the road, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. He’s wearing a black suit, no tie, top button undone, looking less like a wedding guest and more like a hitman.

"Good," he says, his voice a low vibration that cuts through my panic. "Hatred is a lot more honest than whatever 'happily ever after' my brother was selling you. Marcus always was a mediocre liar. I’m just surprised it took you this long to notice."

"You knew?" I snap, whipping my head toward him. "You knew he was cheating?"

"I knew who he was, Ivy. Leopards don't change their spots just because they make a promise." He reaches into the center console, pulls out a heavy silver flask, and hands it to me without looking away from the road.

"Drink," he commands. "We’re going to find a bar that doesn't serve champagne, and we're going to make sure you forget Marcus Vance ever existed."

I take a long, burning swallow of the bourbon. It’s high-end, smooth, and hits my empty stomach like a lightning strike. I don't just want to forget. I want to erase the last two years of my life. I want to peel off this white silk skin and become someone else. Someone who doesn't get cheated on. Someone who doesn't play it safe.

"Drive faster, Roman," I mutter, leaning my head back against the leather. My hair is coming out of its pins, falling in dark waves over my shoulders. "Don't let me stop until I can't feel anything at all."

He glances at me then—a look so intense it makes the air in the car feel electric. "Careful what you wish for, Ivy. You might wake up with more than just a headache."

"I don't care," I say, and I mean it. I take another swing of the flask. "I want to do something that can't be undone. I want to give them something real to talk about."

Roman’s jaw sets. He maneuvers the SUV through the city traffic with a predatory grace, heading away from the suburbs, away from the country clubs, and straight toward the neon blur of the city center.

"The thing about burning it all down, Ivy," he says, his voice dropping an octave, "is that you have to be prepared to stand in the ashes."

"Then let's burn," I whisper.

We find a dive bar that smells of stale beer and bad decisions—the kind of place where a girl in a wedding dress is just another Tuesday night hallucination. Roman buys a bottle of the strongest tequila on the shelf. We sit in a corner booth, the dim red light casting shadows across his sharp features.

Every shot is a brick in a wall I’m building between me and my old life. Roman stays with me, drink for drink, his eyes never leaving mine. He isn't the ‘safe; brother. He’s the one who makes you want to jump off the ledge just to see if you can fly.

"You were always too good for him," Roman says, his thumb brushing against the back of my hand. The touch is electric, a jolt of heat that makes my breath hitch. "You were just too blinded by the 'perfect' life to see the man standing right in front of you."

"And who is that man, Roman?" I lean in, my head spinning, the world narrowing down to just him.

He smirks, a dark, dangerous tilt of his lips. "The one who’s going to make sure you never look back."

The rest of the night is a blur of neon lights, the salt on the rim of a glass, and Roman’s hand firmly on the small of my back as he leads me toward a small, tacky chapel with a glowing 'Open' sign. I remember laughing. I remember him signing a paper with a flourish. I remember the weight of a ring sliding onto my finger.

I remember thinking: This will show them.

Then, the darkness finally takes me.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

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Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

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First Edition: January 2026

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