Shr married him anyway

Chapter one Isabella pov Someone closed the door Evelyn’s wedding day arrived faster than I expected. The morning light poured through the tall arched windows of the estate as if the weather itself had been bribed to cooperate. Her parents and Philip’s had spared no expense. The ceremony was to take place in the grand ballroom of the old colonial mansion on the hill—the one with the white columns and the sweeping lawns that rolled down toward a private lake. White roses and orchids had been flown in by the hundreds. They climbed the pillars in thick cascades, spilled from towering arrangements on either side of the aisle, and floated in crystal bowls along every surface that could hold them. The chairs were draped in ivory silk with gold-edged runners. A string quartet was already tuning somewhere near the conservatory. Outside, white marquees waited for the reception, their interiors lined with fairy lights and long tables set with silver and crystal that caught the sun like small fires. Everything looked perfect. Everything looked expensive. Everything looked like a life I was never meant to have. What none of them knew was that her best friend—me, Isabella—had planned to ruin it. Three hours before the ceremony was scheduled to begin, I found my little cousin in the corridor outside the bridal suite. She was eight, all bright eyes and bouncing braids, clutching a small bag of sweets she had already been given by one of the aunts. I crouched to her level and pressed two more pieces of candy into her palm. “I need you to do something very important,” I said, keeping my voice light. “Run to Evelyn’s room and tell her Philip is looking for her. Tell her it’s urgent. He needs to see her right away. Can you do that for me?” She nodded solemnly, already unwrapping one of the candies. Then she scurried off down the hall, her little shoes tapping against the polished floor. I watched until she disappeared around the corner. Only then did I straighten my dress—the soft champagne silk Evelyn had chosen for her chief bridesmaid—and walk the opposite way toward Philip’s dressing room. My heart was steady. My hands were not. I did not knock. I opened the door, stepped inside, and closed it behind me. Philip turned from the mirror, still in his trousers and an open white shirt, cufflinks in one hand. He started to speak. I did not let him finish. I crossed the room in three steps, dropped to my knees on the thick carpet, and reached for his belt. The buckle gave easily. The zipper followed. I pulled his c**k free and took him into my mouth before he could form a single word of protest. He was as big as I had imagined all those years—thick, heavily veined, the kind of c**k that could stretch a body open and still leave it aching for more. The head was smooth and already flushed dark. I closed my lips around it and sucked gently at first, tasting the faint salt of his skin. A deep, involuntary moan rolled out of him. His hand found the edge of the dressing table for balance. I played with the sensitive ridge just beneath the head, swirling my tongue, earning another low sound from his throat. Then I took him deeper, inch by inch, until the blunt pressure of him brushed the back of my throat. I did not pull away. I wanted the stretch. I wanted the proof that I could take what Evelyn thought belonged only to her. My revenge had a taste, and it was the weight of him on my tongue. I drew back slowly, letting saliva gloss the shaft, then focused on the tip again—sucking, licking, teasing—before sinking down once more and taking as much of him as I could. His hips jerked. Another moan. I felt the head of his c**k nudge my throat and held there, breathing carefully through my nose, eyes watering just enough to blur the edges of the room. I pulled off with a wet sound and looked up at him. “Tell me I’m better than her,” I said. My voice was rough. “Tell me you want to c*m on me.” His eyes were dark, almost black. For a second he only stared, chest rising and falling hard. Then the words came, low and raw. “Isabella… you’re ten times better than Evelyn. I want to throw my c*m all over your face.” Something in my chest twisted—sharp, almost painful. Satisfaction and grief tangled together. I had waited years to hear a version of those words. Now that they were here, spoken on the morning of his wedding to someone else, they did not feel like victory. They felt like confirmation of every lonely night I had spent imagining this exact moment. I swallowed the ache and went back to him. This time he used his hands. One settled at the back of my head, fingers threading through my carefully arranged hair, guiding me deeper. The other rested against my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my stretched mouth. I held his waist for balance and let him set the pace, taking him as far as I could on every stroke. The wet sounds of it filled the quiet room. Outside, distant voices moved through the corridors—staff, relatives, the ordinary noise of a wedding morning—but in here there was only the two of us and the slow, deliberate ruin I was building. “Isabella,” he groaned. “You were always the one I wanted. Since you turned eighteen I’ve wanted to ruin you. f**k… you’re so good at this.” I pulled back again, spit shining on my lower lip, and wrapped my hand around his c**k. I stroked him slowly while I held his gaze, giving him the filthiest smile I owned. Drool threatened to slip from the corner of my mouth. I did not wipe it away. “Call me your w***e,” I said. “Call me a whore.” His breath shuddered. “Isabella… you’re my f*****g w***e. You slut.” The words landed like heat low in my belly. He kept going, muttering more as I worked him—how tight my mouth felt, how he had pictured this, how he was going to paint my face and make me wear it under my bridesmaid dress. His hips began to move in short, shallow thrusts. I matched him, sucking harder on the upstroke, using my hand on the base where my lips could not reach. One of his hands tightened in my hair. The other slid down to cup the back of my neck, holding me in place while he f****d my mouth with increasing urgency. I never forgot why I had come here. Somewhere beyond the door, footsteps approached—light, quick, familiar. Evelyn’s. The sound cut through everything else. My pulse spiked. This was the moment. This was the entire point of the plan. I shifted lower, took one of his balls into my mouth while my hand continued to stroke his slick c**k, and looked up at him with deliberate insolence. “f**k, Isabella,” he hissed. “You’re so much better than my wife-to-be. Oh—Isabella—” The door handle turned. The latch clicked. For one suspended second I imagined her face—fury, betrayal, the perfect wedding cracking open in real time. I kept my mouth on him, waiting for the scream, the gasp, the shattered silence that would end everything. None of it came. Philip’s hand stayed in my hair. He kept pushing me back and forth along his length, voice rough and unrepentant. “You like my d**k in your mouth while I’m about to marry your best friend, huh? You dirty little slut.” I sucked him harder, relentlessly, even as confusion began to crowd the edges of my mind. The door did not fly open. No one spoke. The footsteps seemed to pause—and then the latch clicked again, softer this time, as if the door had been eased shut by someone who had seen enough and chosen silence. “f**k—I’m going to c*m all over your pretty little face, Isabella—” “Do it,” I managed when I could pull off for air. “c*m on me while your wife-to-be is right outside.” He groaned, deep and broken. His hips stuttered. Then he was coming—thick, warm, salty spurts flooding my mouth. For a moment the closed door and the missing scream vanished from my thoughts. There was only the taste of him, heavy and intimate, and the sharp, unexpected pleasure of swallowing every drop. I did not waste any of it. When the last pulse faded I licked the remaining sheen from the head of his c**k, slow and thorough, while he watched me with half-lidded eyes. “Look at you,” he murmured. “Licking up my c*m like the slut you are.” I rose, still on my knees, and shoved him lightly back against the dressing table. He went willingly. I pressed a brief, filthy kiss to his mouth so he could taste himself on my tongue. He kissed me back just as hard. “If you want this to continue,” I said against his lips, “come to my room after the wedding. We’ll see how the rest of me feels.” His hand found my ass and squeezed. A low laugh escaped him. “Lick the c*m off the floor first, you slut.” A few drops had landed on the carpet near my knees. I bent without hesitation and cleaned them with my tongue while he watched. When I straightened, he was still smiling that dark, satisfied smile. “I wouldn’t miss that p***y for the world,” he said. “But this stays between us.” I zipped his trousers carefully, letting my knuckles brush the half-hard length of him one last time, a deliberate promise. Then I gave him another hungry kiss—c*m still faint on both our mouths—and he answered it with equal hunger. When I finally stepped back, I smoothed my dress, fixed what I could of my hair, and left the room without looking at him again. The corridor felt longer on the way to Evelyn’s suite. My lips still tingled. My throat still carried the memory of him. Every step raised the same question higher in my chest. I opened her door. Evelyn stood in front of the tall mirror in her wedding gown, veil already pinned, a makeup artist packing away the last of the brushes. She turned when I entered. Her gaze moved over me—face, mouth, hair—with a calm that did not match the chaos I had just left behind. For a second I thought I saw something flicker in her expression. Then it was gone. “Where have you been?” she asked. Her voice was even. Almost mild. “You have s*x hair, bitch.” She said it the way another woman might comment on a smudged lipstick or a wrinkled sleeve. No accusation. No demand for truth. She simply stepped closer, reached up, and began smoothing the strands I had not managed to fix, her fingers neat and practical against my scalp. I stood frozen under her touch. Why was she behaving as if she had not opened that door? As if she had not stood on the threshold and seen her husband-to-be with his c**k in her best friend’s mouth less than twenty minutes earlier? The questions stacked themselves in my head, one on top of the other, until they formed a wall I could not see past. If it had not been Evelyn who walked in on us—who had it been? A relative? A staff member? Someone who was even now deciding whether to speak? My heart beat hard enough that I was certain she must hear it. She finished with my hair, stepped back, and studied her own reflection again as if nothing in the world had shifted. “There,” she said. “Better. We should go down soon. They’re almost ready for us.” I nodded because speech felt impossible. Inside, the carefully built structure of my revenge was already beginning to crack. The door had closed without a sound. The bride was fixing my hair. And somewhere in the house, Philip was putting on his jacket, carrying the taste of me into the ceremony that was supposed to bind him to someone else. I had wanted fury. I had prepared for devastation. What I received instead was silence—and the first, unsettling suspicion that the day would not break the way I had planned.