1
Bella
I’m definitely going to hell.
Not that I wasn’t already on the list, but this? This just bumped me to VIP status. Front row, flames included.
Because instead of waiting at the bridal suite for the time to walk down the aisle to marry Konstantin freaking Belov, I’m sitting on a toilet, wedding dress hiked up, trying not to pass out.
Let me back up.
I didn’tmeanto run.
Not really.
I just needed a second. A breath. Maybe an exorcism.
Somewhere, my parents are probably watching this disaster unfold—my mother clutching her pearls, my father rubbing his temples.This is what we died for?
And honestly?Fair question.
Because instead of fighting like I always swore I would, I’m taking the easy way out—selling my soul in exchange for a safetynet. If that doesn’t earn me a one-way ticket to the underworld, I don’t know what does.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the world to stop spinning. The wedding brigade had practically marched me into the church, a well-oiled machine of Russian efficiency, lace adjustments, and hairspray fumes. And I let them. Because what else was I supposed to do?
I’d been parked in a tornado of lipstick, heel straps, and Aunt Ludmila muttering prayers under her breath—and somewhere in that blur, I remember something. A flash from the car window on the drive over this morning.
A taco stall.
Three blocks down. The one with the faded blue awning and a line already forming before noon. It’d barely registered at the time, but now?
Now it feels like a religious vision.
Suddenly, I’m 8 years old again, sitting in my dad’s beat-up Chevy before a big spelling bee, too nervous to breathe. He pulled into that taco stand on Rosewood and bought me twocarne asadawith extra lime.
Comfort food fixes everything, Bellita,he’d say, wiping salsa from my chin.
My stomach growls. My brain short-circuits.
Decision made.
I tell Natasha I need to pee. Simple. Believable. Even mobsters respect bladder emergencies. The bridal suite is locked down tighter than a federal prison, but the moment I wobble in my heels and make a pained face, one of Konstantin’s security goons—who looks like he’d rather wrestle a grizzly than deal with a hysterical bride—nods at another guard to escort me to the restroom.
I count my steps. Act normal.Resist the urge to sprint.
The second we reach the marble-floored hallway, I move fast.
“Actually, I think I’m going to be sick—” I clutch my stomach, bending slightly.
The poor guy guarding me—probably expecting tears, vomit, or both—looks absolutely horrified. “Uh—”
“Actually, I think I might be fine now.” I straighten, waving a hand. “Just need a second.”
He hesitates. Eyes narrowing slightly.
I double down, sighing dramatically. “Just… wedding jitters, you know? Big moment. Big day. Really gotta make sure I’m…” I gesture vaguely. “Centered.”
Still suspicious.
