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Rhys

I sit, fingers steepled, as the glare from the mid-morning sun blasts through the Fairmont’s floor-to-ceiling windows during our Saturday EnergiFusion board meeting. Austin Sands, our interim CEO, is running the show—and most everything else—with a calm that seems impossible after the disaster Justin Capriotti left in his wake. It’s no fun being held accountable for everything caused by the disappearance last year of our fugitive founder.

“What did Clear Security find in Prague?” Wade Williams, a board member, asks, his brows knit.

Austin sighs, shaking his head. “We missed him. There’s a million-dollar reward out there, so plenty of amateur sleuths are sniffing around for leads, but we keep missing Justin by a hair—four continents and counting.”

I shift in my seat, considering the absurdity of it all. A global game of hide-and-seek? With all the money we’re throwing at this, it’s getting exhausting.

“Do we even know if Justin’s alive?” asks Gill Collins, another board member.

Austin’s jaw tightens. “He’s alive. He reads my emails. I can see when they’ve been opened.”

A murmur ripples around the table, and Wade presses his fingers together, eyes narrowing. “So, he’s ignoring us?”

The revelation jolts me. Justin is checking his email? I mean, if he’s using his computer to get online, that makes sense. Why didn’t I think to write him a note?

“Could someone be tipping him off? Inside information, perhaps?” It’s Wade again, voice tinged with suspicion.

The room tenses. Crystal Capriotti, Justin’s wife and recently appointed director of our marketing, stands sharply. “Are you suggesting I might be talking to my husband?” Her voice is ice, her eyes daring Wade to confirm the accusation. “I have emailed him every day since he left, and not once has he responded.” Her voice cracks.

“If the shoe fits…” Wade retorts, seeming unmoved by her drama.

Crystal’s face flushes. She’s an easy target, but there’s no proof.

“Enough,” I interject. “Speculation isn’t helping us find Justin. Let’s move this along.”

Crystal nods gratefully, and I feel for her. She and I haven’t always gotten along, but being caught between loyalty to her husband and the scrutiny of a board must be very difficult. Nonetheless, my empathy doesn’t blind me to the possibility that within this very room, someone knows more than they’re letting on. But who or what anyone knows is hard to tell. I glance around at the faces of the board members. Each one holds varying degrees of concern and disbelief.

Austin clears his throat. “Let’s move on,” he says, though his eyes linger on Crystal. “Next, we have the aftermath of the NHTSA audit to discuss.”

Austin’s words fall like a hammer, and a collective shiver runs through the board. The findings were in our favor—we were not at fault for the battery fires—but the investigation confirmed a network of counterfeit batteries, branded with our logo, spreading through the market. And these aren’t just poor substitutes, they’re dangerous, clearly prone to catching fire. We’ve done what we can to make buyers aware of them, but they’re still out there.

Crystal clears her throat and stands to give her report about working with the FBI to root out the person behind this. The counterfeiters got an early version of our battery plans from the dark web, but those plans are incomplete and far inferior to what we produce today. We need to make sure there’s not still a leak, so we can be sure we’ve stopped the flow of dangerous products. When she’s finished, she answers a few questions.

“Someone is undermining us from within,” Gill murmurs.

“Sabotage?” another board member asks.

“That’s what we need to find out,” Austin says, and he looks at me. “Rhys, you’re next.”

My hands feel oddly clammy as I rise to give the financial report, numbers and projections that seem cold and impersonal. “Thanks to Mason Sullivan’s intervention,” I begin, “Maloney Chemical is now reliably providing all the sodium-ion we need for our batteries. The factory floor is operating at full capacity, and output looks promising.”

“Is our financial position stable?” Gill asks. “Can we weather this storm?”

He’s asking because when Justin left, more than a billion dollars also disappeared, which was a large portion of our cash reserves.

I meet his gaze squarely, despite the knot of unease in my gut. “Our accountants assure me it is. But as I’ve said before, we need someone on staff who better understands these numbers. I’m a chemist, not a CFO. We need someone with the expertise to navigate us through this.”

There’s a murmur of agreement, and I sit, my heart thumping. It’s clear to everyone, especially to me, that my place is in the lab, amidst beakers and formulas, not wrestling with balance sheets and financial forecasts. Yet here I am, out of necessity.

“Thank you, Rhys.” Austin nods. “Despite your lack of formal finance education, you do a fantastic job.”

“I also look at the financials every month,” adds Mason Sullivan, our venture-capital backer. “They’re strong, despite what happened.” His firm, SHN, owns thirty-five percent of the business, so he definitely knows our financial situation.

“No need to butter me up,” I tell Austin and Mason.

Then Austin stands again, hopefully signaling the close of our tumultuous board meeting. “I stepped into the role as interim because the company needed a face during the NHTSA audit. With our recent challenges largely behind us,” he declares, “I’ll be stepping down as interim CEO next month.”

Before his words fully settle, Crystal rises. “I am more than capable of taking up the mantle,” she asserts, scanning the table with an unwavering confidence that I suspect seems misplaced to everyone but herself.

Pandemonium erupts around me, a cacophony of disbelief and dissent, all directed toward Crystal. I can feel the tension building, a balloon inflating with every passing second, ready to burst.

Mason stands, his presence commanding. “EnergiFusion needs stability, and we’re not out of the woods yet,” he says. His gaze lands on me. “Rhys has shown he understands not just the science at our core but also the financials and production. He’s the clear choice for our next interim CEO.”

My head shakes before I’m fully aware of it, a reflex born of certainty. “I appreciate your confidence, Mason, but I’m a chemist, first and foremost. The lab is my sanctuary and where I’m the most comfortable. The face of the company isn’t for me.”

“I disagree, Rhys,” Mason counters. “Your insight during this crisis has been invaluable. You’re exactly who we need at the helm.”

A vote is called amidst nods and murmurs of agreement from around the table. Austin’s eyes meet mine, seeking confirmation, but all I can offer is silent dissent. Crystal’s hand shoots up alongside mine, the only two in opposition.

The air crackles with tension, the kind that follows a lightning strike. I blink rapidly, trying to process the board’s decision as Crystal stands, her chair scraping back with a sound that echoes my shock. “Discrimination,” she spits. “That’s what this is.” Her eyes are ablaze.

Theo Reed, a founder and our chief operations officer, rises calmly. “Crystal,” he says, “you know this role requires deep scientific knowledge. You’re brilliant in marketing, and you’re keeping us visible, viable. We need you there.”

I watch her face, expecting her to launch into a tirade. But Theo has a way, a gentle authority that even she can’t seem to brush off. She doesn’t agree, but she sinks back into her seat, lips pressed into a thin line.

Austin stands and hands me the gavel. “This is yours now. I’ll be around if you have any questions.”

“Wait!” I nearly scream. “You said a month.”

Austin shrugs. “You’ve got this, and I’m leaving on my honeymoon, so you might as well start Monday.”

The meeting stumbles to a close, and my head is pounding by the time I stand to leave, my hand passing over my face. Crystal bolts from the room in defiant retreat.

Mason lingers, along with Austin and Theo. “We’ll get started on finding a CFO,” Mason assures me, clapping a hand to my shoulder. “You have all our confidence, Rhys.”

Theo’s grip on my other shoulder is steadying. “It’s just till Justin returns,” he says. “You’re made for this, even if you don’t see it yet.”

Austin nods. “Hopefully, the hard part’s over, Rhys. You’re the right person to lead us forward.”

But as they talk of transitions and confidence, my mind races with formulas and chemical reactions. I’ll be charting a course I never dreamed of or wanted.

We walk out together, and I hand the valet my ticket and wait, feet shuffling, as he retrieves the key to my latest indulgence, a bright blue McLaren Artura Spider convertible. It’s a guilty reward for my travel back and forth to the UK while collaborating with the automaker on an EnergiFusion battery. Only two hundred fifty of these cars exist in the world, and one is mine.

“Here you go, sir,” the valet says as he presents my key.

“Thanks,” I mutter.

Austin, Theo, and Mason draw near, their eyes alight at the sight of the car. I press the key fob, the top retreats, and the dihedral doors swing open. “Isn’t she a beauty?” I say.

I love this car. When I start her, the plug-in-hybrid powertrain hums quietly, the gas engine augmented by an axial flux electric motor nestled in the transmission’s housing. And the EnergiFusion battery pack under the cabin is a little piece of me in this machine.

“Listen to her,” I say, revving the engine gently. The sound is passionate, emotive, but not overwhelming, a symphony of power without the brashness of a standard V-8. “Handling’s razor sharp. Perfect for the track,” I continue. “But she’s got a gentle side, too. She’s comfortable for the daily commute around town or a cruise down the highway.”

“Promise you’ll let us drive it sometime?” Theo asks, his grin wide.

“Of course,” I assure them, settling in with the breeze in my hair. There’s nothing like a convertible. “We should all get our cars out to the track to play.”

“Set it up,” Mason says. He has a Bugatti Chiron Super Sport that will clean our clocks, but we’ll still have a great time.

They disperse with pats on the back and murmurs of anticipation, leaving me alone. I ease the Artura out onto the street.

As I crest Nob Hill, the iconic Grace Cathedral looms ahead, and I slow to a stop at the light. A sudden blur of white catches my eye. Before I can process what’s happening, the blur resolves into a woman in disarray. She dives over the car door and into the passenger seat beside me.

“Drive!” she yells.

I freeze, taking in the tulle, silk, and lace that engulfs her. This is not the escape I had in mind when I left the boardroom. “What the hell?”

“Please drive,” she begs, voice muffled by her gown.

I glance at the traffic light—it’s still red—and then back at her. There’s a wildness to this moment. She’s face first in the passenger seat. A wisp of sandy blonde hair covers my lap, and her legs are in the air.

The light isn’t green for a second before the car horns behind me start blaring.

“Get out of my car!” My voice is sharper than intended, but adrenaline and sheer disbelief are doing a number on my patience. It’s not every day a runaway bride hijacks my McLaren.

She twists slightly to face me, a tangle of tulle and desperation. “I can’t. Please, just drive.” She glances toward the crowd spilling out of the church and the tuxedo-clad human wrecking ball barreling down the steps. “I’ll pay you whatever you want!”

I scoff, my grip tightening on the wheel. “Lady, this car is worth more than most wedding budgets. What could you possibly offer me?”

Her piercing green eyes flash with irritation. “How about freedom from whatever boring rich-guy event you were just at? You look like you need it.”

“Boring?” I bark out a laugh despite myself. “You’re the one who just dove headfirst into a stranger’s car in a wedding dress. Maybe rethink your standards for ‘boring.’”

She doesn’t answer right away, just jabs a finger toward the irate groom. “Him. See him? He’s boring. And a liar. And if you don’t hit the gas, he’s going to murder me in front of Grace Cathedral.”

Again, the horns blare behind me. I sigh, muttering, “This is a terrible idea,” as I stomp on the accelerator.

The car lurches forward, and she flops against the seat, letting out a small squeak. “Nice driving,” she grumbles, trying to sit upright while disentangling herself from layers of silk and lace.

“Nice entrance,” I shoot back. “You always crash luxury cars or is this a special occasion?”

“Only when I catch my fiancé getting a…special occasion from one of my bridesmaids,” she fires back.

I glance at her, my eyebrows lifting. “Well. That explains the dramatic exit.”

“You’d be dramatic too if you caught that five minutes before walking down the aisle,” she says, her hands working at the veil tangled in her hair.

“You didn’t hit him, did you?” I ask, a hint of amusement creeping into my voice.

“I didn’t have time,” she replies, deadpan. “But if you turn this car around, I might still get a chance.”

I chuckle despite myself. “Tempting, but I think we’d both rather not deal with a vehicular-manslaughter charge today.”

I slam my foot on the accelerator. The Artura leaps forward, the electric motor whispering its silent hymn of power as we surge down the hill toward the Marina. For a moment, all I can see are her legs twisted in the gown, the delicate outline of a heart tattoo peeking from the inside of her thigh.

A moment later, a look in the rearview mirror confirms no sign of the wedding party mob or the disgraced groom behind us. I pull into the first parking lot I can find and cut the engine. Swiftly stepping out, I round the car to her side.

“Hey, you okay?” I ask as I carefully pull her out and into a standing position. Concern now nudges aside my initial annoyance. “Are you in danger?”

She stumbles, and I extend a hand to steady her. There’s an unmistakable sound of fabric tearing as she finds her footing on the asphalt. I finally get a good look at her, and she’s quite striking—sandy blonde hair with sunkissed highlights styled into an elaborate coif, tendrils dancing around her heart-shaped face. Her eyes are a piercing green.

“Thank you,” she says, still working at her headpiece. The tiara comes off, taking the veil along with it. Then, with a swift tug at her dress, the skirt detaches, and I’m momentarily distracted by the sudden shift of my dick in my pants. Get it together, Rhys.

“What happened?” I can’t help but ask.

She exhales sharply, almost a laugh. “I caught my groom with his dick in my bridesmaid’s mouth.”

Her words hit me like a punch. “Sorry,” is all I can manage, feeling the weight of her humiliation and anger. “Where do you need to go?”

“Anywhere but Grace Cathedral, that’s for sure.” She shakes her head, hair tumbling down around her shoulders, and suddenly, she seems lighter, transformed. “I’m staying at the Inn Above Tide in the Marina.”

“I know the place,” I tell her. It’s an exclusive five-star hotel just a stone’s throw from my home on the boardwalk. “I can take you there.”

The remnants of her wedding ensemble now lie scattered across the asphalt—the skirt, the veil, and all the sparkling accessories once nestled in her hair. “You’re just going to leave that there?” I ask.

She gives a decisive nod. “Someone else can use it.” She shrugs. “I’m certainly not going to.” She climbs back into my McLaren with an air of finality, taking one last look at the discarded symbols of a future she’s rejected.

“I can’t believe I just ran out of my wedding,” she muses a moment later as we get back on the road. It’s as if the reality of her actions is only now sinking in. “Did you see his mother? Boy, is she pissed.” Her laugh is hollow. “Our parents have been pushing for this practically since we were born. It was supposed to merge our dynasties or some nonsense like that. No thank you.” She shakes her head, and I glimpse rebellion in those jade-green eyes. “I always knew it was a mistake.”

I navigate toward her hotel, and her story unfolds, a torrent of raw emotion and uncensored thoughts. She vents about the betrayal, the shock of walking in on her groom in such a compromising position, her voice gaining heat with every word.

“Can you believe I actually told my mom what he was doing? And do you know what she said?” She snorts, and there’s a venom in her voice that wasn’t there before. “‘Just get through today, and we can manage it later.’ As if I’d marry a guy who—”

She cuts off abruptly, but I don’t need her to finish the sentence. The image is already scorched into my brain. I admire her strength.

“Can’t believe I wasted so much time with him. A guy who can’t even be faithful.” She breathes out, a touch of sorrow sneaking into her fiery tirade.

I have to admit, I’m fascinated. There’s something about her honest vulnerability that draws me in, makes me want to listen for hours, even as the scientist in me knows it’s illogical to feel invested so quickly.

We arrive at the Inn Above Tide. “You were going to marry him for your family? Did you love him?” I ask, needing to understand more than just the frayed ends of her broken engagement.

She turns to me, her gaze piercing. “I don’t know. But right now, I’m angrier and more hurt than anything else.”

I nod. It’s clear she’s not the type to crumble, not even under the weight of public scandal and personal betrayal. But angry and hurt likely doesn’t quite cover it.

Her hand lingers on the door handle. “Thank you,” she says. “For the ride, and for…rescuing me.” She pauses. “You saved me from making the biggest mistake of my life.”

She leans in close, her breath a whisper against my skin, and plants a soft kiss on my cheek. Then she’s out of the car, leaving behind a trail of chaos and a hint of jasmine.

I stare after her, caught in the wake of her storm. A smile tugs at my lips. It’s not every day you play getaway driver to a runaway bride. My heart thuds a rhythm of adrenaline and something else, something unfamiliar.

The engine purrs beneath my fingertips as I shift into drive and glide down the street. For a moment there, I forgot that I’ve just been foisted into the role of interim CEO at EnergiFusion. And when I reach home, mere doors away from her hotel, I realize I didn’t get her name.