I swallow.
It’s not fine.
2
Konstantin
Thisis not how I expected to find my bride.
Not hiding.
Not crying.
And certainly not sitting on the side of the street, barefoot, in a wedding dress, devouring a taco like it’s her last meal on Earth.
The scene is so fucking absurd I actually pause.
My men don’t.
The SUVs skid to a stop in front of the taco stall, tires biting into the asphalt.
A few people scatter. The vendor grips his spatula like he might have to use it as a weapon. Someone mutters “cartel” under their breath.
My men move first. Timur steps out immediately, his sharp gaze locking onto her.
Isabella.
Sitting on a plastic stool, eating a fucking taco.
For a moment, I don’t speak. I just watch her.
There’s salsa on her lip.
Irritation should be my first reaction—she ran. Made me chase her. Embarrassed me in a way no one dares to do.
But what I feel instead?
It’s something else—it’s entertaining.
I step out of the car.
The vendor looks between us like he’s reconsidering his entire life’s choices. Isabella stays very, very still, the last bite of her taco hovering near her mouth.
“Did you really run from our wedding just to eat tacos, Isabella?”
Her head lifts slowly.
Her blue eyes are wide, rimmed with the beginnings of tears she clearly doesn’t want to shed. Her lip trembles… just slightly. She blinks fast, like she can erase the evidence.
For a long moment, she just stares. Then, without breaking eye contact—
She shoves the rest of the taco into her mouth.
I stand there, watching her.
She chews. Swallows. Wipes her mouth on her wrist like a feral little creature in designer lace.
Then, very carefully, she says, “Firstly, I did run, but not from our wedding.” A pause. “Because technically, we still have an hour to go.”
