Billionaire's Runaway Princess by Mia Caldwell

her face from the cameras with her free arm. Gustav opened the door of a black limo and nearly propelled her inside with his arm.  She landed on a seat. Next to her was her father, with Tristan on the opposite bench.
    “Daughter, thank God, we found you. Are you hurt?”
    “I’m fine, Father, but—”
    “The man is in custody,” said Gustav from the open door.
    “Good,” said King Francois.
    “Man?” said Tristan archly.
    “No, Father, not good. Ryan has been nothing but kind to me. You must make sure he gets released immediately.”
    “And what were you doing with this man?” demanded Tristan. “This man who was so good to you?”
    “None of your damned business, Tristan,” snapped Marisol.
    “Watch your tongue with me, woman. We’ve been worried sick about you. Your father has been beside himself the whole time.”
    “Like you care about anyone but yourself. If you didn’t put your hands up my dress at the reception, I wouldn’t have left in the first place.”
    “He what?” Her father’s eyes sparkled with anger.
    Tristan’s face turned a particular shade of purple.
    “You left? On your own?” Marisol had never seen anyone so indignant as Tristan Vattakov. “How dare you? How dare you embarrass all of us?” He raised his hand, and she shrank into the seat as she anticipated the blow.
    Before the strike could land, her father caught Tristan’s hand mid-air.
    “Get out of this car, now,” he said in deadly quiet voice.
    “But your daughter—”
    “Deserves better than you.”
    “But the trade agreement—”
    “Is off. Your father represented to me that you were ready for marriage, but your behavior, including the assault on my daughter, shows me otherwise. No trade agreement is worth the unhappiness of my daughter. So get out now.”
    Francois Duvaingnon didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to, because his words come out cold and harder than if he had yelled.
    Tristan blanched. “My father will hear of this outrage.”
    “He most certainly will,” said the king. “Gustav, show Prince Vattakov the way out.”
    Spitting protests, Tristan left the limo.
    “Driver, the hotel,” said the king.
    Marisol’s father wrapped his arms around his daughter.
    “I’m so sorry, Marisol,” he whispered. “I should have known that someone like Tristan Vattakov was no good and certainly not worthy of my daughter.”
    “Father, I’m the one who should be apologizing. I’ve let you down. And now, because of me, our country will suffer.”
    “Shush, daughter. You’re with me, and you’re safe. That’s all that matters.”
    “But you don’t understand. They arrested Ryan. The police think he kidnapped me. He’s in a lot of trouble because of what I did.”
    “Well, if he knew who you were and didn’t do anything to return you to me, he should be in trouble.”
    “Father, no. You do not know this man. He is good and kind. He volunteers his time at a homeless shelter He—”
    But her father’s phone rang, and he answered it.
    “Yes, yes, of course. No, no more public spectacles. A hospital would be just that. Find a physician to come to our hotel.” He ended the call.
    “Physician?” said Marisol.
    “I want to make sure you’re in good health, daughter.”
    “But I am. Nothing bad happened to me, father, I swear.”
    “Your promises do not mean much to me right now, Marisol. You’re my daughter, and I love you, but this whole mess involved three law enforcement agencies and the United States government. They will want detailed answers from us for the time, energy, and expense they put into searching for you. I cannot simply say my twenty-one-year-old daughter ran away because she didn’t like the man she was to marry. It is an embarrassment all the way around, not just for you, but for our country. You understand that, don’t you?”
    “Yes,” said Marisol, shrinking into the seat of the limo at the weight of her father’s condemnation. “But Ryan—”
    “Should