Chapter One
Lola
Run.
That’s it. That’s all I’ve got. One word pounding in my head, louder than the choir, and louder than the vows I didn’t say.
My heels hit the marble hard, every step echoing through the church like it’s tattling on me, and the hem of the dress snags on the runner. I trip, swear under my breath, clutch the bouquet, and keep going.
Someone yells my name. “Lola! Wait!”
Nope. Not a chance.
The doors burst open, and sunlight slams into me so bright it feels personal. Cameras flash and Paparazzi roar. Reporters swarm the steps like it’s feeding time.
I pick up the skirt and just run.
The veil tears loose and whips away in the wind. It floats back toward the church like a ghost of the girl I was supposed to be.
I should feel embarrassed. Instead, I’m gulping air for the first time in months.
“Miss Cruz! Is the wedding off?”
“Where’s Mason?”
“Are you pregnant?”
Questions explode around me. I shove through perfume and microphones and too much aftershave. Security’s shouting, but the story’s already out of my hands.
There—black limo. Thank you, Tessa. If you get cold feet, text cake. I thought she was joking.
The driver sees me sprinting and swings the back door open.
“Go,” I gasp, diving in.
The door slams. Tires screech. The roar fades behind us.
I collapse against the seat, lungs on fire. Layers of tulle puff around me like smoke from something burning down. My hands shake so hard I can’t undo the pearl buttons on my gloves.
“Where to, ma’am?” the driver asks, calm, polite.
“Anywhere but here.”
He doesn’t ask twice.
Through the tinted glass, the church shrinks into a smear of gold and white. News vans are already circling. Drones buzzing. I can practically see the headlines forming.
Runaway Chef.
America’s Sweetheart Loses It.
Cold Feet or Hot Gossip?
I press my palms over my eyes and laugh—sharp, a little wild. It isn’t funny, not really. It’s the kind of laugh that hurts.
My phone won’t stop buzzing. Tessa. Producers. My brother. Numbers I don’t even know. Then Mason’s name lights up the screen like it owns me.
I text Tessa "cake" with trembling thumbs.
Her reply lands almost at once.
TESSA: Palisade. Suite 1803. Service entrance. Ten minutes. Do not talk to anyone.
TESSA: And take off the dress before you get here.
Okay. Orders I can follow.
Decline. Then Power. Hold. Black screen.
Silence. Finally.
I sink deeper into the leather seat. My reflection in the window is a stranger—mascara smudged, lipstick gone, tiara sliding sideways. Somewhere between rehearsal dinner and altar, I became clickbait.
“You all right, miss?” the driver asks after a beat.
“I will be.” It comes out paper-thin.
He nods once and minds his business. Smart man.
Outside, palm trees flash by, billboards, faces that used to cheer for me every Friday night. I wonder how long it’ll take before they start booing instead.
A tear slips loose. I swipe it away. “Not today,” I mutter. “No crying in couture.”
The car slows.
“Traffic jam ahead,” the driver says. “Want me to reroute?”
“Yes. No free shows today.”
He chuckles and swings us down a side street.
The quiet after all that chaos feels strange—like a room still echoing with music. My chest finally starts to unclench. I reach for the small leather overnight bag Tessa insisted I bring. Just in case, she’d said.
In case I ruin my life on national television.
I dig through it with shaky fingers: yoga pants, hoodie, and makeup wipes. Bless her.
I shimmy out of the dress in the back seat, breathless and laughing at how absurd this is. Layers of satin puddle onto the floor as I yank the hoodie over my head. It smells like home—vanilla lotion and coffee.
When I glance up, the driver is studiously facing forward, both hands white-knuckled on the wheel. I almost thank him for not being a creep.
The ring catches the light on my finger. It’s too perfect, too heavy. I twist it off. The skin underneath is pale, indented, like it’s been branded. I drop the ring into the empty champagne flute, one clean clink.
Mason’s voice from this morning still crawls through my head: You’ll thank me someday, Lola. People like you need direction.
He always made it sound tender, like guidance. It was just control.
The limo stops at a light. A billboard looms overhead—Mason and me, smiling like a toothpaste ad. Lola + Mason: A Love Recipe for the Ages.
A sound slips out of me, halfway between a laugh and a sob.
The light turns green. We move on.
By the time we reach the Palisade, my pulse has slowed, but my hands still won’t stop shaking. I pull on sunglasses, sling the bag over my shoulder, and slip out through the back entrance barefoot, heels hooked in my fingers. The doorman recognizes me but mercifully pretends not to.
In the elevator mirror, I look wrecked—makeup smeared, eyes wild—but alive in a way I haven’t been in a long time.
For one reckless second, I smile.
Maybe I should’ve done this years ago.
When the doors slide open on eighteen, Tessa’s waiting—phone in one hand, latte in the other. Her expression says you’re impossible, and I’ve got you all at once.
“Nice of you to make an entrance,” she says dryly.
“Did I miss the cake?” I croak.
She groans, pulls me into a hug that smells like espresso and Chanel. “You just blew up national television, sweetheart. We’ve got ten minutes before the press finds this hotel.”
“Perfect,” I mumble. “Plenty of time for a meltdown.”
She steps back, scanning me—hoodie, messy bun, and ruined mascara. “We’ll spin it. Runaway bride, bold feminist reclaiming her life. I can sell that in my sleep.”
“I don’t feel bold,” I admit.
“You will,” she promises. “First step—burn the dress.”
I grin weakly. “Add that to my memoir title.”
While she orders a bottle of wine and calls the studio, I drop the bag on the couch and catch sight of the dress balled up inside. I can’t look at it.
Through the wall, Tessa’s voice stays steady: “Yes, we’ll issue a statement. No, she’s not doing interviews. Yes, we’re handling it.”
My whole future’s unraveling in the next room. And somehow, I’m breathing easier than I have in years.
I run a hand through my hair and whisper to my reflection, “Okay, Lola. You ran. Now what?”
The mirror keeps its secrets.
Somewhere beneath the leftover adrenaline, something steadier takes its place.
Not fear. Not shame.
Freedom.