My Bratty Wife

The familiar dressed footman was gone. The reassuring presence of Noah was horrifyingly absent, left behind on the cobblestones. Suzy’s heart hammered against her ribs as the carriage, her own ducal carriage, dashed through the city streets at a reckless, unfamiliar pace.

She twisted around, peering through the small rear window. Noah was a diminishing figure, running desperately, his face a mask of alarm and effort, shouting something she couldn’t hear over the clatter of hooves and wheels. But the carriage was too fast, expertly maneuvered through the thinning post-auction traffic by a driver whose face she hadn’t seen, whose commands were harsh and unfamiliar. Soon, Noah was lost to sight.

Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at her. She poked her head out of the side window, the wind whipping her stray hair across her face. "Aaron!" she cried, using the name of their trusted coachman. "Aaron, could you slow down a bit, please? You seem to have forgotten Noah!"

There was no response from the driver’s seat, only the relentless crack of the whip and the straining of the horses as they were urged to an even greater speed. The voice that had barked the command to start was not Aaron’s gentle baritone; it was rough, gruff, and utterly strange.

It was then, with a sickening lurch in her stomach, that Suzy truly understood. This wasn’t a mistake. Aaron wasn’t driving. She was being kidnapped.

Her first instinct was raw terror. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. Her mind raced. Open the door! Jump! But a glance out the window at the blurred scenery, the rapidly passing buildings, told her it was madness. At this speed, leaping from the carriage would mean severe injury, most likely death.

"Calm down, Suzy," she whispered to herself, her fingers tapping a frantic rhythm on her lap. "Panicking won’t solve anything. Think. You have to think." She took a series of deep, deliberate breaths, forcing the terror back, pushing for clarity. Ryan. Noah. They would be searching for her. She had to help them.

A thought, desperate but clear, sparked in her mind. A trail. She had to leave a trail.

Her gloved hands flew to her head. She untied the ribbons of her stylish pastel colored hat, the one she’d worn to the auction, and without a second thought, tossed it out the window. It fluttered for a moment before landing on the dusty roadside. One glove followed, then the other, dropped a short distance apart. Her delicate lace fan, the one she’d fiddled with nervously before the auction, was next. She unclasped her dainty heeled shoes, her auction finery, and sent them tumbling out one after the other. Then her silk stockings, peeled off with trembling fingers. The small, glittering hair ornaments Irene had so carefully pinned into her low bun that morning were scattered onto the road. The matching pastel color bow from her dress. Her pearl necklace, a gift from Ryan, was unclasped with a pang of regret and sacrificed to the wind.