The church bells of St. Catherine’s had been scheduled to ring at 3:00. Instead, at 2:47 p.m., Isabella Montgomery stood in the bride’s preparation room, her wedding dress a masterpiece of lace and silk, reading a text message that shattered her carefully planned life. Can’t do this.
Sorry, I’m in love with someone else. Richard, her fianceé, Richard Ashford III, heir to the Ashford banking fortune, had sent a breakup text 13 minutes before their wedding to a woman standing in a church filled with 300 guests. Isabella’s hands shook as she read the message again, certain she’d misunderstood. But no, the words remained the same.
Her mother’s voice came through the door, bright and oblivious. Bella, darling, it’s almost time. Isabella looked at herself in the mirror. At 26, she’d done everything right, graduated from Yale, worked at her father’s investment firm, dated the appropriate men, and finally accepted Richard’s proposal after 2 years of a relationship that was more strategic partnership than passionate romance. Her father had been thrilled.
The merger of Montgomery Wealth and Ashford Prestige would be, as he’d said repeatedly, excellent for business. But Richard was gone and 300 people were waiting. The door opened and her mother entered respplendant in champagne silk. Bella, what’s wrong? You look pale. Richard’s not coming. Isabella’s voice sounded distant to her own ears.
He sent a text. He’s in love with someone else. Her mother’s face went through a remarkable transformation. Shock, fury, calculation before settling on determined composure. Well, we’ll simply have to make an announcement. This is mortifying, but these things happen. Your father will handle the Ashfords legally, of course.
The deposits, the arrangements. I can’t go out there, Isabella said quietly. I can’t face all those people. Darling, you must. You’re a Montgomery. We face our difficulties with grace. But Isabella was already moving toward the side door, the one that led to the church gardens rather than the main sanctuary. She couldn’t breathe in this dress, in this room, in this life that had just imploded.
Isabella, where are you going? But Isabella was already gone, running through the gardens in her elaborate wedding dress, her veil streaming behind her, her designer heels sinking into the lawn with each step. She ran without direction, without plan, driven only by the need to escape the humiliation, the pity, the whispers that would define her for years.
Isabella Montgomery jilted at the altar. Poor thing, did you hear? 13 minutes before the ceremony. He must have found out about, but there was no about. There was no scandal, no secret. Just a man who’ decided he didn’t love her after all. Isabella found herself in a part of town she didn’t recognize. She’d been running then walking when running became impossible in the dress for maybe 20 minutes. The streets were older here.
The buildings weathered. The people looking at her with curiosity and concern. A woman hanging laundry called out, “Miss, are you all right?” Isabella didn’t answer. She kept walking until she found herself in front of a small corner bar called Riley’s. Through the window she could see it was nearly e t just a few afternoon regulars and a bartender. She went inside.
The conversation stopped immediately. Five pairs of eyes turned to stare at the woman in the wedding dress standing in the doorway. The bartender, a man in his 50s with kind eyes and a weathered face, recovered first. Well, now either someone’s getting married or someone’s having the worst day of their life. Which is it, Miss? The ladder,” Isabella said, her voice breaking.

“Definitely the ladder.” “Then you’ve come to the right place. Come on in. First drinks on the house.” Isabella made her way to the bar, her dress rustling absurdly in the dim space. The bartender poured her a whiskey without asking what she wanted. “I’m Frank,” he said. “And you look like you could use a friend.” I look like an idiot, Isabella replied, taking a drink and wincing at the burn.
She wasn’t much of a drinker. Wine at charity gallas, champagne at celebrations. But today seemed like a day for whiskey. You look like someone who showed up and someone else didn’t, Frank said gently. That makes them the idiot, not you. Isabella felt tears threaten again. He texted me 13 minutes before the ceremony, said he was in love with someone else.
One of the regulars, an old man with a thick beard, made a disgusted sound. Texted? What kind of coward? Pete, not helpful, Frank interrupted. Miss, I’m sorry. That’s That’s about as low as it gets. My mother says I need to face it with grace. My father will probably sue and I just I just wanted to disappear. Isabella laughed bitterly.
So, here I am. Disappeared into a bar I’ve never seen before, wearing a dress that cost more than most people’s cars. Well, you’re welcome to stay as long as you need, Frank said. No judgment here. The door opened behind Isabella, letting in afternoon sunlight. She didn’t turn around until she heard Frank say, “Jake, didn’t expect you today.
” “Finish the job early,” a man’s voice replied. thought I’d he stopped. Isabella turned to see what had caught his attention and found herself looking at possibly the most out ofplace person she’d ever seen. And that was saying something given that she was currently sitting in a workingclass bar in a wedding dress. He was maybe 30 with shoulderlength dark hair that looked like it had been cut with scissors and good intentions rather than professional skill.
He wore a work shirt that had seen better days, faded jeans and boots caked with what looked like mud or cement. But it was his eyes that caught Isabella, startlingly blue, sharp with intelligence, and currently wide with surprise. Did I walk into the wrong bar? He asked. Or did Riley’s get a lot fancier since this morning? Jake, this is Frank paused, looking at Isabella.
Isabella, she supplied. Isabella Montgomery. “Jake Sullivan,” the man said, moving to the bar, but keeping his distance as if approaching a spooked animal. “Hell of a dress.” “Hell of a day,” Isabella replied. Jake ordered a beer and took a seat two stools away. For a few minutes, they sat in silence.
Then Jake said, “So, I’m guessing you were supposed to get married today.” “What gave it away? The dress or the mascara running down my face?” Bit of both. Jake took a drink of his beer. What happened? Cold feet. His feet, not mine. Sent me a text saying he was in love with someone else. Jake made a low whistle. That’s rough. I’m sorry.
Everyone’s sorry, Isabella said, surprising herself with the bitterness in her voice. Everyone will be so sorry and so sympathetic. And they’ll all be thinking, “Poor Isabella. She wasn’t enough to keep him.” or they’ll be thinking that guy’s an idiot who walked away from someone who clearly had the courage to show up,” Jake countered.
Isabella looked at him properly for the first time. Up close, she could see he was handsome in a rough, unpolished way. There was paint or plaster dust in his hair, and his hands were calloused, hands that did real work, not the soft hands of bankers and lawyers she was used to. “What do you do, Jake Sullivan?” she asked.
construction, carpentry mostly. I restore old buildings, he shrugged. Not glamorous, but I like it. Do you like it, or do you just say that because it sounds better than admitting you’re stuck? Jake turned to look at her fully, and Isabella saw she’d surprised him. That’s a pretty cynical question from someone in a wedding dress.
I’m having a cynical day. Isabella finished her whiskey and gestured for another. Frank raised an eyebrow, but poured. To answer your question, Jake said, “Yeah, I actually like it. I like taking something broken and making it beautiful again. There’s something honest about it. You can see the results of your work.
” “Must be nice,” Isabella murmured. “To have something honest.” They sat in silence for a while. Other patrons drifted in and out, each doing a double take at the woman in the wedding dress, but politely pretending not to stare. The afternoon light shifted, turning golden. Can I ask you something? Jake finally said sure.
This day can’t get any weirder. Did you love him? The guy who didn’t show up? Isabella opened her mouth to say yes automatically, but the word stuck. Did she love Richard? Had she ever? I don’t know. She admitted quietly. I thought I did. Or maybe I just loved what we represented. The perfect couple.
The perfect merger of perfect families. Maybe that’s worse than him leaving. realizing I’m not even heartbroken, just humiliated. For what it’s worth, Jake said, “I think honesty, even uncomfortable honesty, is better than living a lie.” Easy to say when you’re not the one sitting in a bar in a wedding dress. Fair point.
Jake smiled slightly, “Though I have sat in a bar in worse situations. Trust me, worse than being left at the altar. I once showed up to my own wedding. That was worse.” Isabella stared at him. Wait, what? 3 years ago, I was engaged to my high school sweetheart. Thought we were perfect for each other. Got to the altar, said the vows, kissed the bride, went on the honeymoon.
Jake’s voice was carefully neutral. Found out 6 months later she’d been cheating on me the entire time we were dating. Married me because her parents pressured her, not because she loved me. Jake, I’m so sorry. Don’t be. Best thing that ever happened to me was that divorce. Taught me that sometimes the life you think you want isn’t the life you need.
He looked at her. Maybe that’s true for you, too. Isabella considered this. So what? I’m supposed to be grateful Richard humiliated me in front of 300 people. Not grateful, but maybe open to the possibility that this isn’t the end of your story, just the end of a chapter that wasn’t working. Anyway, that’s very philosophical for a carpenter.
I read a lot on my lunch breaks. Despite everything, Isabella laughed. It felt strange laughing on what was supposed to be her wedding day, but also somehow right. Isabella, Jake said carefully. Can I suggest something completely insane? Today seems like a day for insane. Marry me. Isabella’s laugh died. What? Marry me right now. Today.
Jake held up a hand before she could respond. Hear me out. You’ve got a dress. You’ve got a church full of people. You’ve got what I’m guessing is a very expensive reception paid for. Your family’s already humiliated. Your ex- fiance is already gone. So, why not flip the script? Are you insane? Probably. But think about it.
You walk back into that church with a groom. Just not the groom anyone expected. You get married. You have your reception. You save face. And then after an appropriate amount of time, we get quietly divorced. You blame me, the poor carpenter who you married in a moment of temporary insanity. Your family forgives you. You move on. Isabella stared at him.
Why would you even suggest this? Jake was quiet for a moment. Because I know what it feels like to be humiliated. And because I can see you’re terrified to go back there and face the aftermath. This gives you a different narrative. You’re not the woman who got left. You’re the woman who found someone better.
But you’re not better. No offense. I don’t even know you. None taken. And you’re right. But they don’t know that. All they’ll see is that you didn’t let some rich jerk break you. That you had the strength to choose differently. This is crazy. completely. We don’t know each other. True. You could be a serial killer. I’m not. But I understand the concern.
Jake pulled out his phone here. These are character references. Frank can vouch for me. My parole officer speaks highly of me. You’re what? Kidding. Wanted to see if you were paying attention. He showed her his phone. But seriously, I’m just a guy who restores buildings and minds his own business. The most exciting thing in my life is arguing about wood stain at the hardware store.
Isabella looked at the phone, then at Jake, then at the wedding dress she was wearing. This was absolutely insane. Marrying a complete stranger, going through with a wedding when the groom had fled. Everything about this was wrong. And yet the thought of walking back into that church alone, of facing her parents, of becoming poor Isabella for the rest of her social life, that felt impossible.
If I agreed, and I’m not saying I am, but if I did, what would you want out of this? Jake shrugged. Help me out down the line if you can. I’ve got this building I’m trying to restore. Turn it into affordable housing. could use some investment connections eventually, but honestly, I’m mostly just a guy who hates bullies and likes rooting for the underdog.
You’re the underdog today. I’ve never been an underdog in my life. Then today’s full of firsts. Isabella sat there, the weight of the decision pressing down on her. This was insane, impulsive, completely out of character for Isabella Montgomery, who planned everything, who colored inside every line, who’d never made a spontaneous decision in her life.
And maybe that was exactly the problem. Okay, she heard herself say. Let’s do it. Jake’s eyebrows shot up. Really? No. Yes, maybe. I don’t know. Isabella laughed slightly hysterically. But I can’t face walking back into that church alone. So if you’re serious about this absolutely insane plan, then yes, let’s get married.
You’re sure? I’m not sure about anything anymore. But I’m sure I don’t want to be the victim in this story, so let’s rewrite it. Jake stood up and offered his hand. Then Isabella Montgomery, let’s go get married. Wait. Isabella looked him up and down. You can’t get married looking like that. You’re covered in what is that? Cement probably and paint and possibly some sawdust.
Do you have anything else to wear? I’ve got my good jeans in the truck and a shirt I wear to funerals. That’ll have to do, Frank. Isabella turned to the bartender who’d been watching this entire exchange with his mouth slightly open. Can he change here? In the back, Frank said faintly. But are you two actually serious about this? Absolutely not, Isabella said.
Which is why we’re definitely doing it. 20 minutes later, they stood outside St. Catherine’s Church. Isabella had done her best to repair her makeup using the bar’s bathroom mirror. Jake had changed into dark jeans and a button-down shirt that was wrinkled but clean. He still looked completely out of place next to her elaborate dress, but there was something almost perfect about the contrast.
Last chance to back out, Jake said. Don’t tempt me. Isabella took a deep breath. How do we do this? We walk in there like this was always the plan. You’re marrying me because I’m amazing. Debatable. And anyone who has a problem with it can deal. Your parents will be confused. Your guests will be shocked.
But you’ll be married, not jilted. You’ll be the one who made a choice, not the one who got chosen against. And then what? Then we have one hell of a reception and we figure out the rest tomorrow. Isabella looked at this stranger who was offering to marry her for no reason except kindness and a shared understanding of humiliation.
Everything about this was wrong, impulsive, crazy. And yet it felt more right than anything in her carefully planned life had felt in years. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s go crash my own wedding.” They walked into the church together and the reaction was exactly what Isabella had expected. Gasps, whispers, her mother’s face going white, her father half rising from his seat.
The priest, Father Michael, looked utterly confused. But Isabella kept walking, her hand in Jake’s callous one until they reached the altar. Father Michael, she said clearly, her voice carrying through the suddenly silent church. I’d like you to meet Jake Sullivan, my groom. The church erupted, but Isabella just stood there holding the hand of a stranger.
And for the first time that day, she felt like she could breathe. Her mother reached them first. Isabella, what is the meaning of this? Who is this man? Where is Richard? Richard isn’t coming, mother. He sent a text saying he’s in love with someone else. So, I found someone better. Isabella squeezed Jake’s hand. This is Jake Sullivan.
He’s a carpenter. He’s kind and he’s actually here. Those qualities suddenly seem very important. Her father arrived, his face red. Isabella, you cannot be serious. You cannot marry some some random person you just met. Why not? You were perfectly happy for me to marry Richard. And I’m pretty sure I never really knew him either.
Isabella felt a strange calm settling over her. I’m 26 years old, father. I’m getting married today. The only question is whether you want to stay and support me or leave and make this even more of a spectacle. This is insanity. Her mother hissed. You’re embarrassing yourself. Embarrassing us. No, mother. Richard embarrassed me.
I’m simply refusing to stay embarrassed. Isabella looked at Jake. Unless you’ve changed your mind. Not a chance, Jake said, and she could see the hint of admiration in his eyes. I’m all in if you are. Father Michael cleared his throat. Isabella, I have to ask. Do you actually want to marry this young man? This isn’t just reaction to what happened. Isabella paused.
It was a good question. What was she doing? Marrying a stranger to avoid humiliation, to prove a point, to take control of a situation that had spiraled out of her grasp. Maybe all of those things. But looking at Jake, really looking at him, she saw something she hadn’t seen in Richard. Authenticity. He wasn’t here for her money or her name.
He was here because he understood pain and had offered her a way out of hers. That was more than Richard had ever offered. Yes, she said firmly. I want to marry him. Then let’s begin. The ceremony was surreal. Half the guests had walked out in confusion or protest. The rest stayed, some out of shock, some out of morbid curiosity.
Some, Isabella could see, with expressions of grudging respect for the sheer audacity of what she was doing. Jake’s vows were simple, unpolished, and somehow perfect. Isabella, I promise to stand by you for as long as you need me to. I promise to be honest, to be kind, and to never send important news by text message. The remaining guests laughed and Isabella felt something in her chest loosen.
Her own vows were equally simple. Jake, I promise to try to live more honestly, to make choices instead of letting choices be made for me, and to never take for granted someone who shows up when they say they will. When Father Michael pronounced them married and Jake kissed her chastely respectfully like someone sealing a deal rather than claiming a prize, the church broke into confused applause.
At the reception, Isabella’s parents cornered them immediately. “I want to speak to you,” her father said to Jake, his voice dangerously quiet privately. Anything you need to say to my husband, you can say in front of me,” Isabella said, linking her arm through Jake’s. Her father’s eye twitched at the word husband. “Fine.
Who are you really? What do you want? Money? Access to my business contacts? Because I promise you, whatever scheme you’re running, Dad, stop.” Isabella stepped between them. Jake isn’t running a scheme. He’s being kind to someone who needed kindness. That’s something you might not understand, Isabella.