ให้ผมเป็นเป็ดตัวโปรดของคุณ

**Isabella's POV**

 The organ swelled like it was trying to rip my heart out through my ribcage.

  Every step down that endless marble aisle felt like walking the plank. Five hundred pairs of eyes burned into me, but I only saw one face.

  Alexander Knight.

  My groom.

  The man who, twenty minutes ago, had been balls-deep in my maid of honor.

  He stood at the altar looking like a fallen angel (dark hair perfectly tousled, blue eyes glassy with what the world would call “overwhelming love”). A single tear (an actual tear) slid down his cheek as I approached. Cameras flashed. Someone in the front row whispered, “They’re so in love.”

  I smiled.

  Wide.

  Beautiful.

  Deadly.

  “You asshole,” I breathed, so low only I could hear it. “Today you lose everything.”

  The hem of my Vera Wang dragged over white rose petals like I was rolling over his grave. My hands shook inside the lace gloves, but I forced them still. I would not cry. Not here. Not for him.

  When I reached the altar, Alexander took my hands like they belonged to him. His thumbs brushed my knuckles (gentle, possessive, the same way he’d touched me last night when he whispered he couldn’t wait to call me his wife).

  Liar.

  “Dearly beloved,” the priest began.

  Alexander leaned in, lips brushing my ear. “You look unreal, Bella. I’m the luckiest bastard alive.”

  I turned my face so our mouths were almost touching.

  “Enjoy the next five minutes, sweetheart,” I whispered back. “They’re the last ones you’ll ever spend on top.”

  His brows twitched (confusion, amusement?), but the priest was already talking about love and honor and cherish. Alexander kept squeezing my fingers, grinning at the guests like a man who’d won the lottery.

  I let him have his moment.

  Then came the vows.

  The priest smiled beatifically. “Alexander and Isabella have chosen to recite their own vows.”

  Alexander went first. Of course he did.

  He turned to me, voice thick, eyes shining.

  “Isabella Marie, from the moment you walked into that boardroom three years ago and told me my tie was ugly,”

  Laughter rippled through the crowd.

  “I knew I’d spend the rest of my life trying to make you smile. You are my home, my fire, my everything. I promise to love you on the good days, the bad days, and every day in between. I can’t wait to build an empire with you… and a family.”

  He slid the ring (ten carats, flawless, custom-designed) halfway up my finger and paused for the applause.

  I stared at the diamond and felt nothing but cold fury.

  The priest turned to me. “Isabella?”

  Five hundred guests leaned forward.

  I pulled my hands from Alexander’s. Slowly. Deliberately.

  Then I reached for the microphone.

  Alexander’s smile faltered. “Baby?”

  I tapped the mic twice. Feedback squealed. Every camera in the room zoomed in.

  “The wedding is off.”

  Dead silence.

  I looked straight into Alexander’s eyes. “And Alexander? You should probably check your prenup. Section 14C (infidelity clause). Since you couldn’t keep your dick in your pants for twenty-four hours before our wedding, I now own fifty percent of Knight Corp.”

  A collective gasp sucked the oxygen from the cathedral.

  His face went white. “Isabella, what the hell are you...”

  I yanked my hand away before he could grab it.

  “Don’t touch me. I know everything. The bridal suite? Really, Alex? With Chloe? My best friend since college?”

  Someone screamed. A phone hit the floor. Flashes went wild.

  Alexander lunged for the mic. “This is insane! She’s lying,”

  I shoved him. Hard. Wedding dress and all, I shoved a six-foot-three billionaire so hard he stumbled backward, arms windmilling, and crashed into the floral arch. Roses exploded around him like blood.

  He hit the marble with a thud that echoed.

  I didn’t wait to see if he got up.

  I grabbed fistfuls of my twenty-thousand-dollar dress, kicked off the crystal heels, and ran.

  Gasps turned to screams. My mother’s voice (sharp, horrified) chased me down the aisle:

  “Isabella! Come back this instant!”

  I didn’t stop.

  The doors were open. Cold air and rain slapped me in the face the second I burst outside.

  It was pouring. Not drizzle (monsoon-level, drown-the-world rain).

  Perfect.

  I ran down the cathedral steps, veil plastered to my face, dress heavy as chainmail. Cameras chased me, but the rain blurred everything. Paparazzi shouted my name. I kept running (past the Rolls-Royces, past the security team yelling into earpieces, past the life I was setting on fire).

  My lungs burned. My bare feet bled on the pavement. I didn’t care.

  I ran until the lights of the cathedral disappeared and the city swallowed me whole.

  I don’t know how long I ran (ten minutes? Twenty?). My legs gave out in front of a tiny 24-hour coffee shop glowing like a lighthouse in hell.

  I shoved the door open, soaked, shaking, mascara streaking down my face like war paint.

  The barista (a nineteen, purple hair, nose ring) took one look at me and dropped the milk pitcher.

  “Holy shit. You’re… you’re the runaway bride. It’s trending everywhere.”

  I laughed. It came out broken. “Yeah. Can I just… sit?”

  She pointed wordlessly at a corner booth.

  I collapsed into it, dress pooling around me like a crime scene. My phone buzzed nonstop in the hidden pocket (Alexander, my mother, publicists, Chloe (that bitch)). I turned it off.

  Rain hammered the windows. Thunder growled.

  The door opened again. Cold air swept in.

  I didn’t look up until expensive Italian loafers stopped right in front of my booth.

  Slowly, I lifted my eyes.

  Black suit. Black coat. Rain dripping from dark hair. A jawline sharp enough to cut glass. Eyes the color of a storm about to break.

  He looked like sin in a three-piece suit.

  He tilted his head, taking in the wedding dress, the smeared makeup, the trembling hands.

  Then he smiled (slow, dangerous, amused).

  “Mrs. Knight,” he said, voice low and velvet and edged with something lethal, “you look like you could use a drink.”

  My heart slammed against my ribs.

  I didn’t know who he was.

  But in that moment, soaked and ruined and furious, I would have followed the devil himself if he promised me revenge.

  I lifted my chin

. “It’s not Mrs. Knight anymore.”

  His smile sharpened.

  “Good,” he murmured, sliding into the seat across from me without asking. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, rain still dripping from his lashes.

  “Then how would you like to destroy him with me?”