From Mob Princess to Mugshot Photographer novel Chapter 21

Chapter 4

After burning all night, the shop was a charred ruin. A crowd had gathered outside, pointing and whispering.

From a distance, I watched the convoy of cars get on the highway, heading back toward New York.

Soren sat in the back, staring absently at his phone.

The screen showed his chat history with me: endless lines of his messages, with not a single reply from me.

The most recent one was from last night.

[Tessa, I’m not kidding. I’m really getting married.]

No response.

He glanced out the window, annoyed, trying to pinpoint where my shop was located.

But the town’s trees were too dense and tall, he couldn’t see a thing.

Defeated, he closed his eyes.

12

Isabelle snuggled against him, flipping through a bridal magazine. “Soren, what do you think? Is this dress beautiful?”

ff–the–s

“I want them to keep the off–the–shoulder neckline but make the skirt fuller…”

He cut her off impatiently. “I told you, I want the custom one. And only that one.”

Isabelle froze, then forced a smile. “Right, right. We’ll get that one.”

He glanced at his phone again and asked the driver, “The board meeting can’t be postponed?”

The driver was the Wilson family’s butler, who had driven through the night to get here,

“It can’t be rescheduled, sir. Your wedding is the day after tomorrow. Mr. and Mrs. Wilson have already arrived in New York.”

He tossed his phone aside in frustration, staring out the window.

On the exposed part of his arm, a small tattoo was clearly visible–my name, “Tessa“, scrawled in a messy script.

I watched Isabelle stare at the tattoo, her hand clenching into a tight fist.

The car window rolled down and the wind rushed in, but I couldn’t feel its chill.

I looked down and watched the wind pass right through me, and a great sense of release washed over me.

So this was it. The freedom I’d longed for. It was finally my turn.

13:50

From Mob Princess to Mugshot Photographer: Smile, Ex

14.5%

Chapter 4

I wanted to leave, but as I looked at the tattoo on Soren’s arm, I found I couldn’t move.

For the next two days, he kept pulling out his phone to send messages. When he got no response, he would pace back and forth, agitated.

The matter of the wedding dress remained unresolved. Isabelle didn’t dare say a word, growing more haggard with each passing day.

The night before the wedding was Soren’s bachelor party.

But he didn’t touch a drop of alcohol, his face grim the whole night.

Ryan came over and clinked their glasses. “Buddy, what’s on your mind?”

Soren looked up abruptly, as if waking from a dream.

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