His Bride in Chains-Chapter 193: The Wedding Morning

The morning sun sliced through the thick hotel drapes like it had a personal vendetta, spilling harsh gold light over the tangled sheets of Isabella Voss’s penthouse suite. It illuminated everything Henry Jackson wished he could blur out—the clothes scattered across the floor, the faint heat still clinging to the bed, the intoxicating scent of last night’s recklessness lingering like smoke after a fire.

Henry sat at the edge of the mattress, elbows on his knees, head bowed. His tall frame looked folded in on itself, as if he were trying to shrink out of existence. His temples throbbed with every heartbeat, and he let out a shaky breath, rubbing his face as if he could scrub away the memories along with the hangover. The regret in his stomach twisted so sharply it almost hurt.

Isabella moved with a calmness that irritated him only because he wished he felt half as composed. She slid out of bed, slipping into her silk robe with practiced ease, the fabric hugging her curves like it worshipped her. Her auburn hair fell in messy waves around her shoulders—effortless, beautiful—and her green eyes sparkled with a glimmer of amusement, the kind that made her look like she was in on a joke no one else understood.

"Come on, doctor," she teased lightly, voice smooth and unbothered. "Quit torturing yourself. Coffee’s calling our names. I’ll order room service—something strong enough to resurrect us from the grave of terrible choices."

Her attempt at humor softened the thick awkwardness hanging in the air, but Henry could barely muster a ghost of a smile. His warm blue eyes were clouded, heavy with guilt he couldn’t hide. "Yeah... coffee. That sounds... necessary."

He bent to grab his shirt from the floor, the fabric wrinkled and carrying the faint scent of her perfume. As he buttoned it with clumsy fingers, he tried not to replay fragments of the night—the slurred laughs, the rushed kisses, the desperate whispers... and that awful moment when he said the wrong name.

He swallowed hard.

Reaching for his jacket draped over a chair, he instinctively patted the pockets. Nothing. No familiar weight. His brow tightened.

"Hold on... where’s my phone?"

Isabella froze mid-dial, turning slowly with one perfectly raised eyebrow. "Your phone? You had it last night, didn’t you?" She paused, thinking. "Maybe you left it in the car?" Her voice was casual.

Henry’s search grew frantic. He checked under the pillows, rifled through the sheets, even knelt to peer under the bed. His heart rate quickened, a knot of unease forming in his chest. "No, no, it’s not here. Damn it—I must have left it at the bar. Or... God, what if it fell out when we stumbled in?" Unbeknownst to him, the phone had indeed slipped from his jacket pocket the previous evening, tumbling silently behind the bar stool amid the chaos of their hasty exit. It lay there now, screen cracked slightly from the fall, buzzing intermittently with missed calls and voicemails from Eliana—desperate pleas he couldn’t hear.

Panic edged into his voice as he straightened up, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Isabella, I have to find it. Eliana—she might have tried to reach me. After everything last night, with her situation... I can’t just—"

"Henry, breathe," Isabella interjected, her tone calm and executive, the same voice that had built her self-made empire. She crossed the room, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. "Panicking won’t magic it back. Let’s retrace our steps. The bar’s just four blocks away—we can head there after coffee. It’ll be fine. Phones turn up all the time."

He hesitated, his ambitious nature warring with his empathy. Eliana’s face flashed in his mind—those expressive honey eyes, the way she’d leaned on him during her darkest days. But Isabella’s green gaze held a quiet plea, a vulnerability beneath her poise. "Okay... okay, you’re right. Just... quickly."

They abandoned the idea of room service and drifted to the small kitchenette instead, moving around each other with an awkward choreography born from too many questions neither of them was ready to ask. Isabella busied herself with the coffee maker, grounding beans with sharp, efficient movements. Henry leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching the steam rise as she poured the dark liquid into two ceramic mugs.

The aroma wrapped around them—warm, rich, almost comforting. For a fleeting moment, it felt like the world outside the suite didn’t exist. Henry took a slow sip, letting the bitterness anchor him, trying to piece together how to politely suggest he should leave, shower off this whole mistake, and maybe never speak of it again.

But before he could form a sentence, the fragile quiet shattered.

Isabella’s phone—forgotten on the nightstand—exploded into life. Rings, buzzes, alerts, overlapping one another like an orchestra in full meltdown. Henry flinched. Isabella muttered something under her breath and strode across the room, silk robe sweeping behind her like a battle cape.

She picked up the phone, glanced at the screen... and her face changed. The levity from earlier drained out, replaced by a cold, sharp focus that made Henry straighten instinctively.

"Oh, hell," she breathed. "It’s starting."

She answered the first call with a swipe that sounded almost aggressive. "Mom? Yes, it’s me." Her voice was clipped, steady. "No, I’m not at the venue. The wedding’s off. Completely cancelled."

Henry blinked, stunned into silence.

A pause, then Isabella’s tone hardened, a blade sliding cleanly into steel. "Logan? He’s a snake. I overheard him last night—plotting with his baby mama to kill me after the vows. Take everything I own."

Another pause, followed by a furious hiss: 𝒻𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝘯𝘰𝑣ℯ𝑙.𝘤𝑜𝘮

"Yes, murder, Mom. I’m not hysterical; I’m furious. I’m getting the police involved. My lawyers are already on it."

She turned slightly, jaw clenched, eyes bright with something volatile—fear, rage, maybe both—as Henry stood frozen in place, the coffee warming his hands, watching as Isabella paced, her robe swishing with each step. Her parents’ voices spilled from the speaker in a cacophony of shock and demands. "Dad, listen—I’ve got proof. Overheard it all in our bedroom. The wedding dress can rot; I’m not walking into a trap." She hung up, only for another call to flood in—her best friend, then Logan himself.

"Isabella? Where the fuck are you?" Logan’s voice boomed through the phone, laced with feigned concern masking rage. "The guests are arriving, the planner’s freaking out—"

"Save it, Logan," Isabella snapped, her green eyes flashing like emeralds in firelight. "I know everything. Your little murder scheme with your side piece? Wedding’s cancelled. I’m pressing charges. Don’t come near me."

To be continued...