Never Again Yours (Isadora and Magnus) novel Chapter 81

Magnus had always imagined Isadora would look stunning in a wedding dress.

But when he finally saw her, he realized that words fell utterly short.

Nothing could capture the shock that thundered through him.

She stood draped in delicate, gauzy layers, the immaculate gown enveloping her with an almost otherworldly radiance.

Underneath the bright lights, she seemed gilded in gold, every angle of her aglow.

It was the kind of beauty that felt unreal—like an angel had descended from some far-off heaven, pure and untouchable.

Magnus felt an awe so deep he was almost afraid to approach, fearful he might taint something sacred.

And then it struck him—this breathtaking woman was about to become his wife.

For once, the ice in his expression softened.

Isadora’s own face was unreadable as she watched Magnus approach.

Lily, the bridal consultant, chimed in, “Miss Vaughan, this dress isn’t usually worn with a shawl. Would you like me to take it off? That way you can really see the silhouette.”

Isadora didn’t move.

Taking her silence as consent, Lily gently slipped the sheer wrap from her shoulders.

Suddenly, Isadora’s pale neck was exposed, graceful as a swan’s.

But at the base of her throat and along her collarbone were unmistakable marks—dusky, faintly purple.

Up close, it was obvious what they were.

Lily was a grown woman. She knew these weren’t bruises. They were… love bites.

A blush crept up Lily’s cheeks.

Well. These two were certainly passionate.

Mr. Wainwright doesn’t hold back, does he?

She gave an awkward little laugh.

“Magnus, you and I are done. Who I’m with, what I do, is none of your business. There’s no ‘cheating’ to speak of.”

His eyes burned red, his chest heaving with a jealous fury that threatened to consume him.

Without warning, he seized her wrist and dragged her toward the lavish bathroom on the side of the suite.

Isadora stumbled, nearly falling as he yanked her along.

Rage flared in her chest, and she fought him, kicking and pounding at his grip.

“Magnus, you lunatic! Let me go!”

He didn’t seem to hear her, hauling her into the marble-tiled bathroom, past the freestanding tub beneath the tall windows.

Without hesitation, he grabbed the showerhead, turned the water on, and sprayed her—right over her hair, her face, her expensive gown—as if he could somehow wash away the marks with sheer force.

Cold water pelted Isadora, soaking her hair and wedding dress.

She threw her hands up to shield herself, furious and drenched.