Isabella's POV
My first public outing as Mrs. Cross had been a complete catastrophe.
And honestly? I refuse to take accountability for even an inch of it.
Because no matter how anyone tried to spin it, nothing about that cigar bar dinner had been my fault.
Not the smoke that clung to my hair and nearly made me gag.
Not the mobster Stepford wives who acted like they were auditioning for Real Housewives of Hell.
Not even the one who leaned over, sniffed dramatically, and asked if I did coke because "girls with tits that perky usually do.
Then she whispered something to her husband, and he proceeded to stare at my chest for the rest of the night.
So yes. That disaster was on them.
Tonight, though?
Tonight I wouldn't have a pathetic venue to blame.
Because we were going to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
