The Runaway Asset: Betraying My Billionaire Father

Elodie Jimenez stared at the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the penthouse suite of the Plaza Hotel. The reflection staring back was flawless, a vision of bridal perfection that cost more than most people earned in a decade. The silk of the couture engagement dress clung to her ribs like a second skin, white and pristine. But inside that expensive casing, her stomach rolled. A wave of nausea climbed up her throat, tasting of bile and panic. She swallowed it down. She was good at swallowing things down. Fear. Anger. The truth.

Her mother, Mrs. Jimenez, swept into the room. She did not knock. Privacy was a luxury Elodie had lost the moment she turned eighteen and became marriageable.

Stand up straight, Elodie, her mother said, her eyes scanning the hem of the dress for imperfections rather than looking at her daughter's face. You are slouching. The photographers will be here in twenty minutes.

Elodie pulled her shoulders back. The bones in her spine cracked audibly. She felt like a doll being arranged in a box.

Is Kade here yet? Elodie asked. Her voice sounded thin, reedy.

Her mother waved a hand, dismissing the question as if it were a fly.

It does not matter when he arrives, as long as he is on the podium by eight. The Senator is already downstairs with the press. Do not embarrass us.

Mrs. Jimenez adjusted a stray lock of hair on Elodie's forehead, her fingers cold and dry. Then she turned and left, leaving the scent of expensive lilies in her wake. It smelled like a funeral parlor.

Elodie needed air. The walls of the suite, covered in silk wallpaper, felt like they were closing in. She walked to the balcony doors and pushed them open. The November air of New York City hit her face, biting and cold. It should have felt refreshing. Instead, it felt like a warning.

Below, the hum of the city was drowned out by the noise of the engagement party starting on the terrace beneath her. Jazz music floated up, cheerful and oblivious.

Then she heard a voice. It was a baritone rumble she knew better than her own heartbeat. Her father. Hazen Jimenez.

She froze. She pressed her back against the cold stone divider of the balcony. He was on the adjacent terrace, just out of sight.

The merger is solid, Senator, Hazen said. His voice had that smooth, shark-like quality he used in boardrooms.

I am worried about the girl, another voice said. Senator Clay. Kade's father. She seems... hesitant.

Hazen laughed. It was a dry, humorless sound.

Elodie does what she is told. She understands her role. This marriage is not a union, Clay. It is an acquisition. She is the final asset needed to seal the port deal. Once the papers are signed, the infrastructure contracts are ours.

Elodie stopped breathing. Her lungs seized.

Asset.

Not daughter. Not bride. Asset.

She had known, deep down, that this marriage to Kade Clay was advantageous for the families. Kade was her childhood friend. She had convinced herself that they could make it work, that there was some affection there. But hearing it spoken aloud, stripped of all romantic pretense, shattered the glass floor she had been standing on.

She was currency. She was a bargaining chip for a port deal.

She looked down at her hands. They were trembling. She gripped the stone railing until her knuckles turned white.

A notification pinged on the phone she had left on the balcony table. She picked it up, her movements jerky. It was an Instagram notification.

Alden Soto.

The name sent a fresh spike of pain through her chest. She tapped the screen. It was a photo of him at a tech summit in Las Vegas. He looked devastatingly handsome in a charcoal suit, smiling that half-smile that used to be reserved for her.

He was not here. He was not coming to save her. He had not even sent a text.

The contrast between the cold reality of her father's words and the silent rejection of the man she actually wanted snapped something inside her. The nausea vanished, replaced by a cold, hard clarity.

Elodie turned and walked back into the suite. She moved with a sudden, frantic energy. She went to the back of the walk-in closet and pulled out a nondescript black duffel bag. It was her emergency bag, packed weeks ago during a bout of insomnia she had refused to analyze.

She reached behind her back and unzipped the couture dress. It fell to the floor in a puddle of white silk. She stepped out of it and kicked it aside.

She pulled on a pair of dark jeans and a gray hoodie. She looked in the mirror. The heiress was gone.

She reached into her purse and took out her primary phone. She disabled the GPS. Then she turned it off and left it on the vanity table, right next to the diamond earrings her mother had laid out.

From the duffel bag, she took out a burner phone she had bought with cash at a bodega in Queens.

She slipped out of the suite, bypassing the main hallway. She took the service elevator. It smelled of cleaning chemicals and old food.

The lobby was a zoo of guests and staff preparing for the party. No one looked at the girl in the hoodie. They were looking for Elodie Jimenez, the princess in the tower.

She pushed through the revolving doors and hit the sidewalk. She raised her hand. A yellow cab screeched to a halt.

JFK, she told the driver.

She climbed in. The leather seat was cracked and smelled of stale tobacco. It was the best thing she had smelled all day.

As the cab merged into traffic, she typed a single text to Kade on the burner phone.

I can not breathe. Do not look for me.

She hit send. Then she pulled the SIM card out of the burner phone and dropped it onto the floor mat of the taxi.

She was not Elodie Jimenez anymore. For the next few hours, she was Maria. And she was going to Las Vegas.