Her pale blue eyes—so different from my father’s steely gray ones that I inherited—study me with practiced neutrality.
“A mother helps prepare for her son’s wedding day. It’s tradition.”
“Nothing in this family has ever been about tradition.” I take a deliberate sip, watching her over the rim of my glass.
“An American girl.” She makes it sound like a disease. “With a Spanish name.”
“Yes, IsabellaMarquez,” I supply, watching her face tighten.
“No connections, no family name, no understanding of our ways.” Each word is precise, clipped. “Is this how you honor your father? By bringing foreign blood into the family while he lies helpless?”
I take another careful sip, and swallow.
“On Father’s terms.”
The silence between us stretches, brittle and sharp. My mother watches me with that unreadable expression she perfected long ago—detached, distant, a woman who mastered the art of survival by never giving away her thoughts.
“I see,” she says finally, setting down her teacup with an infuriatingly delicate clink. “So, this is truly happening.”
“Did you think I was joking?”
“No,” she answers, standing with the slow grace of someone who has never had to rush for anything. “I simply thought you’d come to your senses before it was too late.”
I down the rest of my drink and set the glass aside. “Too late for what?”
Her lips press together. “For a mistake you can’t undo.”
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, already prepared to ignore whoever is foolish enough to interrupt. But the name on the screen stops me cold.
Timur.
My grip tightens around the device as I answer.“What is it?”
For a second, there’s nothing but silence. Then, his voice—low, measured, but carrying a weight that tightens something in my chest.
“She’s gone.”
I stare at the far wall, my pulse a slow, steady beat against my temple. “Explain.”
Timur exhales sharply. “The bride, Boss. Your bride. She’s gone.”
Something cold and lethal unfurls inside me. “Definegone.”
“Vanished, boss"
I drag a hand over my jaw, the sting of frustration sharp beneath my palm.
Suka.
I pace to the window, staring out over the skyline. The clock on the wall ticks, taunting. Less than three hours until the wedding.
Timur exhales sharply again, a sound I don’t like.
“She was in the bridal suite, already in her dress. Hair done, makeup flawless. I had men posted at every exit. She said she needed the restroom, took off her veil, and walked toward the side corridor. A minute later… nothing. She never came back.”
A slow burn ignites in my chest. “And no one saw where she went?”
“She climbed out through the restroom window. Left her shoes behind—one jammed inside the toilet bowl.”
