Chapter 257
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Chapter 257:
The car collided with a stone flowerbed outside a townhouse. The impact was jarring but not catastrophic — less a crash than a hard, grinding stop. The airbags didn’t deploy, but the sudden halt threw Kieran forward. His forehead struck the corner of the built-in minibar.
Pain exploded behind his eyes. A sharp, stinging bloom opened above his right eyebrow.
Silence filled the car for a heartbeat, followed by the hiss of steam from the radiator.
“Is everyone okay?” the driver asked, his voice unsteady.
Kieran sat back and touched his forehead. His fingers came away damp with a thin line of blood. He stared at his hand — red, not gushing, but enough to alarm.
“I’m bleeding,” he said. The blood had already begun to bloom on his white cuff like a flower spreading through fabric.
“We need a doctor.” Greg was already reaching for his phone, face pale. “That’s a nasty cut, Kieran p>
“No!” Kieran grabbed Greg’s wrist with an iron grip. “No ambulance. It will delay everything. The press is there. I can’t arrive looking like this p>
“Kieran, you hit your head. You could have a concussion,” Greg argued, trying to pull free. “You look dazed p>
𝗠os𝘵 r𝗲а𝘥 𝗍his 𝗐𝖾e𝘬 𝗈𝗇
“I’m fine,” Kieran growled, pressing a handkerchief to his head. He hit the intercom. “Status on the backup vehicle p>
“ETA two minutes, Mr. Douglas,” a calm voice from his security detail replied through the speaker. “We are rerouting now p>
“The radiator’s busted, sir,” the driver said, gesturing toward the steam billowing from the hood. “This car isn’t going anywhere p>
Kieran cursed and kicked the door open.
Rain soaked him instantly. He stumbled out onto the sidewalk, the cold water mixing with the blood on his face. A black Escalade with tinted windows screeched to a halt beside him, and a security guard leapt from the passenger seat with a large black umbrella.
“Get in the car, sir,” the guard ordered, shielding him from both the rain and the prying eyes of passersby who were already raising their phones.
Bystanders stopped. Cameras flashed.
“Is that Kieran Douglas? Bleeding?” someone whispered.
Flash. Flash.
At the cathedral, in the bride’s holding room, Aspen was scrolling through Twitter.
Her face went white.
“He crashed?” she shrieked. “Is he coming? Is the wedding off p>
She did not ask if he was hurt. She did not ask if he was alive.
“He’s coming,” her mother, Elouise, said, studying her own phone. “Someone posted a video. He’s getting into his backup SUV p>
“An SUV?” Aspen looked horrified. “My groom is arriving in a glorified truck p>
She turned toward the window. A small sparrow, confused by the storm, slammed into the glass pane.
Thud.
It fell to the sill, twitched once, and went still.
“Bad omen,” the makeup artist whispered, freezing with a brush in her hand.
“Shut up!” Aspen spun around. “Fix my liner! And cover these bags under my eyes p>
Kieran sat in the back of the Escalade, which smelled of clean leather and his own rising panic. He held the bloody handkerchief to his head. The pain arrived in rhythmic pulses, matching his heartbeat.
Nothing will stop this, he thought. This is just a test. The universe is testing my resolve.