Adrian's heart pounded violently in his chest.
He had imagined this moment more than once—Isabella showing up at his wedding. But in every version, she was bitter, broken, desperate.
Not like this.
Not with eyes so cold they could freeze fire.
Not with that damn smirk that told the world she didn't need him. Never had.
Emily leaned toward him, whispering between clenched teeth, "Why is she here?"
Adrian didn't answer.
He couldn't.
He hadn't moved a muscle since Isabella stepped onto the marble floor. She hadn't even looked at him yet, but her presence wrapped around his throat like a silk noose.
"Do something," Emily hissed.
Finally, Isabella's gaze met his.
It was sharp. Distant. As if he were nothing more than a passing name in a fading chapter of her life.
And for Adrian, it stung like hell.
He stepped forward.
"Isabella," he said, voice low and hoarse, "you shouldn't be here."
She smiled. Not kindly.
"I was invited," she replied, eyes sliding toward Emily. "Isn't that right, Miss Bennett?"
Emily paled.
She hadn't expected Isabella to accept that challenge—the passive-aggressive invitation meant only to mock. A cruel joke in a moment of triumph.
But now, the joke was on her.
Isabella turned to the crowd, every movement poised, deliberate.
"I'm here to offer my congratulations," she said. "After all, it's not every day that a man marries the woman he dated while still married."
Gasps. Audible, scandalous gasps.
Emily's face turned sheet white.
Adrian's fists clenched.
And Isabella?
She simply adjusted the strap of her dress and strolled toward the exit like nothing happened.
Let the war begin.