The CEO's Bride

After the run

At Sophia's apartment...

Early in the morning, Ysabelle leaned against the kitchen counter, her hands trembling as she tried to pour herself a glass of water. The sound of the faucet seemed unnaturally loud in the small space.

I was in the living room, when Ysabelle dropped onto the couch, her bare feet curling against the fabric. “I can’t believe we did it,” Ysabelle muttered. “One minute we’re there, and the next—”

“We’re running down the street in heels like idiots,” I finished for her, forcing a nervous laugh.

“What's next?” I asked.

Ysabelle stared at the glass in her hand. The wedding dress—her wedding dress—was now crumpled in a heap in the bedroom, the lace smeared with dirt from the escape. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “It’s like… I can’t even process it. I just knew I couldn’t walk down that aisle.”

I tilted my head. “Was it cold feet? Or… something else?”

“It was everything,” Ysabelle said, her voice breaking. “The vows felt like a sentence instead of a promise. The more I thought about standing there, smiling for everyone, pretending I was ready… the more I felt like I couldn’t breathe.”

My expression softened. “Then you did the right thing. You don’t owe anyone a wedding if it doesn’t feel right.”

“But I owe them an explanation,” Ysabelle whispered. “Everyone...My family… his family… him.”

Silence hung between us, heavy and tense.

Outside, the rain tapped gently against the window, like it was reminding us we were still hidden from the chaos.

I reached for the remote and muted the TV that had been flickering aimlessly in the background. “You have two choices,” I said calmly. “You can go back tomorrow, face the storm, and explain yourself. Or… you can disappear for a while. Give yourself space.”

Ysabelle sat across from me, tucking her knees to her chest. “Where would I even go?”

“Anywhere,” I replied. “We could leave the city for a bit. I'm going back to the province this month. No phone signal, no internet—just you, me, and some badly brewed coffee.”

Ysabelle smiled faintly for the first time that day. “That sounds… peaceful.”

“Then it’s settled, you’re not going to spend the next week drowning in guilt. You’re going to breathe. Think. Figure out what you want.”

Ysabelle took a long sip of water, letting the coolness steady her. “What if people hate me for this?”

I shrugged. “Then they hate you for choosing yourself. But at least you’re still you.”

The rain outside began to lighten, the clouds breaking just enough for a sliver of sunlight to peek through. For the first time since bolting from the church steps, Ysabelle felt like maybe—just maybe—she had made the first decision in a long time that was truly hers.

By morning, the city’s noise had faded behind us, replaced by the hum of the car engine and the steady rhythm of tires against wet asphalt.

I drove with one hand on the wheel, the other holding a lukewarm coffee from the gas station we’d stopped at an hour earlier.

Ysabelle sat in the passenger seat, her hair tied messily, her eyes still swollen from lack of sleep. Outside, fields stretched endlessly, the early sunlight washing the land in pale gold.

“Still no phone signal,” Ysabelle said, glancing at her phone on the dashboard. “Guess that’s a good thing.”

I gave her a small nod.

“It’s… strange. Not checking messages. I feel like the world could be on fire and I wouldn’t know.”

“That’s kind of the point,” I replied. “No one can drag you into the drama until you’re ready.”

By noon, we pulled into the gravel driveway of our house. It was small but warm-looking, with a wraparound porch and a row of pine trees swaying in the breeze. I unlocked the door, and we went in.

Inside, it was quiet—so quiet that Ysabelle could hear her heartbeat. She dropped her overnight bag on the couch and wandered to the window.

“You know,” she said softly, “I didn’t think I’d go through with leaving. Not until I saw the aisle.”

I opened the kitchen cabinets, pulling out two mismatched mugs. “What happened in that moment?”

“It felt… final,” Ysabelle said. “Like stepping onto that aisle meant stepping into a life I wasn’t ready for. I didn't love him and that’s a terrifying thing to realize at your wedding.”

Sophia poured steaming water into the mugs, dropping in tea bags. “It’s not terrifying—it’s honest. Most people would rather lie to themselves than deal with that truth.”

We sat on the porch with our tea, the air crisp and smelling faintly of pine.

“I feel like I’ve been living on autopilot for months,” Ysabelle admitted. “Saying yes to everything—yes to the dress, yes to the flowers, yes to the vows—without ever asking myself if I wanted any of it.”

I sipped my tea and looked out at the trees. “Maybe this is your first real yes. Saying yes to stopping, thinking, and choosing for yourself.”

The afternoon passed in a kind of healing silence. We played old music from my phone, made sandwiches in the cute and tiny kitchen, and walked along the edge of the nearby lake. For the first time in weeks, Ysabelle’s shoulders felt lighter.

That night, wrapped in a blanket on the porch, Ysabelle whispered, “I’m still scared of what comes next.”

I smiled gently. “Good. It means you’re alive. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

Ysabelle nodded. “Why about Johaima? Should we tell her where we are?”

“Maybe”

The next day......

Ysabelle gets ready to go back to the city. I drove her to the bus station, and as the bus pulled away, Sophia raised her hand in a silent wave, her figure growing smaller until it was swallowed by the horizon.

Minutes later, I drove back to our house.

At the bus......Ysabelle held her phone tightly in her hand. She had been waiting all morning for Johaima to answer her messages, and the anxiety in her chest felt heavier with each passing minute. Finally, when the call connected, her voice came out sharper than she intended.

“Johaima, we need to meet. Now,” Ysabelle said, trying to steady her tone. “Im going back.”

There was a pause on the other end before Johaima answered, her voice low and cautious.

The tension between them was thick, years of trust and friendship straining under the weight of hurried decisions. Ysabelle hated the way it sounded—as if she had abandoned Johaima.

Johaima answered. “When and where?”

“The café on 8th Street. See you in an hour.”

When the call ended, Ysabelle exhaled shakily. She pictured Johaima’s disappointment, the way she had stood on the church looking for her that day. The guilt gnawed at her, so this time she needed to explain herself.

For now, all she could do was meet Johaima, explain the truth, and hope Johaima would understood why she had left.