Chapter 127: a little fun

"Voilà!"

The elderly Italian stylist threw his hands into the air, stepping back with a flourish that made his silk scarf flutter.

He clasped his hands against his chest, looking at Isabella like a painter staring at his masterwork. "Signora, it is a miracle. A absolute miracle!"

Two younger assistants stood behind him, clasping their hands and letting out high-pitched squeals of delight.

"She looks like a movie star," one whispered in fast, breathless Italian, leaning down near Isabella’s shoulder. "The color, the eyes... she is so cute! So pretty!"

Isabella sat in the leather chair, her hands resting nervously on her lap. She reached up slowly, her fingertips brushing against the bottom of her hair.

The jagged, chopped edges she had made with the dressmaking scissors were completely gone.

In their place was a soft, smooth bob that rested just above her shoulders, curving gently inward toward her jaw with a natural, loose wave. It felt light, cool against her neck, and bouncy when she moved her head.

The warmth crept straight up into her cheeks. She felt her face heating up under the sudden flood of compliments, her eyelashes fluttering as she looked down at her lap, completely unaccustomed to being fussed over like this.

"Thank you," she mumbled, her voice small as she tried not to smile too hard. "I... I know I made a mess of it."

"A mess?" The head stylist scoffed loudly, waving his hand in the air. "It was an artistic emergency! But now? Perfection. Soft, sweet, elegant." He turned toward the lounge area, raising his voice. "Sir, come look at your beautiful lady!"

Across the sunlit salon, Aaron was leaning back in a deep velvet armchair, one leg crossed lazily over the other.

He had a folded Italian newspaper resting in his lap. The front page featured a dark, crisp photograph of him stepping out of a black SUV in New York, with bold black letters running across the top detailing the massive corporate fallout and the sudden, dramatic end to the Kingston-Carter marriage.

Articles and gossip columns across three continents were running wild with theories about his involvement, asking why a Russian billionaire had personally stepped into a domestic legal battle.

Aaron hadn’t read a single word on the page.

His bright blue eyes had been fixed entirely on Isabella from the moment the stylist finished blow-drying the dark strands.

He sat quietly, a small, dark glint of enjoyment in his eyes as he watched her fight off a blush.

He liked seeing the pink in her cheeks. He liked the way her green eyes shifted around the room, full of life, no longer weighed down by that dull, tired look she had carried for months.

"She looks fine," Aaron said, his voice deep and smooth, though his gaze didn’t leave her for a second.

"Fine?" The stylist gasped, looking deeply offended. "Just fine? You men have no taste!"

Isabella let out a soft, genuine laugh, shaking her head as the assistants helped her out of the chair.

Aaron stood up, leaving the newspaper forgotten on the small table beside his chair. He walked across the polished marble floor, stopping right in front of her.

He reached out, his thumb lightly catching the bottom of her chin to lift her face up toward his. He looked down at her short hair, the way it framed her delicate jaw and made her green eyes stand out even more.

"He’s right," Aaron murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear it. "You look gorgeous, Isabella."

Her breath hitched slightly, the warm blush spreading all the way down to her collarbones.

She pulled her chin back, trying to regain her footing. "You just don’t want to admit I was right about cutting it."

"I will never admit that," he said, a slow, dangerous smile touching his lips.

He extended his arm, and after a second of hesitation, Isabella slid her hand into the crook of his elbow.

The moment they stepped out of the salon’s glass doors and onto the cobblestone street, the warm Italian air hit her face.

The sun was bright and hot, washing over her skin, and a cool breeze blew off the nearby water, stirring the soft ends of her new haircut.

Isabella took a long, deep breath.

Her chest expanded, and for the first time since her first rebirth, there was no weight pressing down on her ribs.

There was no terror of going home to a quiet, cold house, no fear of saying the wrong word to Kian, no dark cloud hanging over her head.

She was miles away from her old life, standing on a street she couldn’t see, but the air tasted clean. It tasted like freedom. A simple, pure kind of freedom she hadn’t even realized she was starving for until right now.

"So," Isabella said, her voice lighter than it had been in a long time. She took two quick steps beside him, her heels clicking on the stones. "Where are we going now? You said we had things to do."

"I do," Aaron said, guiding her smoothly around a low step. "I have a dinner meeting with three investors at five."

Isabella turned her face toward him, her eyebrows raised. "That sounds incredibly boring."

Aaron let out a quiet dry chuckle. "It is."

"Then why are you doing it?"

"Because unfortunately, money doesn’t manage itself, and people like to see my face before they give me theirs."

"Well, I can’t see your face, so I don’t see why I have to suffer through it," she shot back quickly, a bright, playful edge in her tone.

Aaron paused, turning his head to look at her with an amused glint in his eyes.

She was talking more today than she had in the entire past week. The sharp, lively girl Kian Carter had spent years trying to quiet down was finally poking her head back out into the sun.

Before Aaron could reply, a loud, booming noise echoed down the narrow street.

It was the heavy, rhythmic thrum of drums, followed by the bright, cheerful sound of accordions and brass horns.

The air was suddenly thick with the rich smell of fried dough, roasting garlic, melted cheese, and sweet sugar.

The noise of dozens of people laughing, talking, and shouting in loud, expressive Italian washed over them like a wave.

Isabella stopped in her tracks, her ears perking up. She turned her head toward the sound. "What is that?"

"Nothing," Aaron said smoothly, trying to steer her toward the dark car parked near the curb. "Just local noise."

"It doesn’t sound like noise," Isabella said, digging her heels in and refusing to move an inch. "It sounds like a party. What’s over there, Aaron?"

Aaron looked down the street. A hundred yards away, the road opened up into a wide, sunny piazza decorated with long strands of red, green, and white flags hanging between the old stone buildings.

Dozens of wooden stalls were set up, spilling over with food, flowers, and handmade trinkets.

A crowd of locals and tourists was milling around, dancing to live music and laughing under the sun.

"It’s a street festival," Aaron admitted, sighing softly. "A seasonal food market."

Isabella’s face lit up instantly. Her lips parted, her green eyes widening as she leaned slightly in the direction of the music. A genuine, bright smile spread across her face, completely transforming her expression.

Aaron caught the look, and his eyes softened. He leaned down slightly, his voice dropping into a tease. "What? You want to go?"

Isabella caught herself immediately. She stiffened her posture, quickly pulling her expression back into something calm and unbothered, tilting her nose up into the air. "No. Not really. I was just asking."

"Right," Aaron said, his mouth twitching with a smile. "You don’t care at all."

"I don’t. We have your very important, very boring dinner meeting to get to."

"Isabella."

"What?"

"Your mouth is literally watering."

Her cheeks flushed bright red again, and she let out an indignant gasp, slapping her hand against his arm. "It is not! You are insufferable!"

Aaron chuckled, his fingers tightening gently around her hand.

He looked over at his head bodyguard, who was standing near the car door, holding it open. Aaron made a quick, subtle motion with his head, signaling the men to fall back.

"Cancel the five o’clock," Aaron said quietly to his man. "Tell them we’ll do it tomorrow."

"Sir?" the guard asked, surprised. "The investors—"

"They can wait," Aaron said flatly.

He turned back to Isabella, slipping his arm around her waist to pull her close against his side. "Come on, stubborn girl. Let’s go get you some food before you faint."

Isabella tried to keep a stern look on her face, but as they walked toward the noisy square, the smile broke through anyway, wide and breathless.

The square was packed with people, a swirling maze of color, sound, and life.

At first, as they crossed into the crowded space, Isabella felt a small prickle of nervousness in her stomach.

She could hear the shift in the crowd, a few whispers popping up here and there, a few people pausing to stare at her face, recognizing her from the endless news broadcasts about the American divorce trial.

She pulled a little closer to Aaron’s side.

Instantly, Aaron’s arm tightened around her, his massive frame shielding her completely from the crowd.

His tall, broad figure and the lethal, cold look in his blue eyes were enough to make anyone back away three paces before they even thought about staring too long.

His security team moved quietly through the press of people, keeping a wide, invisible circle of safety around the couple.

"Ignore them," Aaron said close to her ear, his deep voice cutting through the noise. "They don’t matter."

Isabella took a breath, letting his steady presence anchor her. He was right. None of those people mattered.

Within ten minutes, the initial awkwardness melted away completely, replaced by pure, chaotic fun.

They moved from one wooden stall to the next, guided entirely by Isabella’s nose. She made Aaron describe every single display to her in detail.

"What is that smell?" she asked, tugging on his sleeve as they stopped near a steaming iron griddle. "It smells sweet."

"It’s fried pastry," Aaron said, looking over the counter. "Covered in powdered sugar and lemon zest."

"Buy two," she demanded instantly.

Aaron raised an eyebrow. "Two? You haven’t even finished the roasted chestnuts."

"I have two hands, Aaron. I can hold both."

He let out a short laugh, pulling out his wallet and paying the vendor. He handed her the warm, sugar-dusted pastry, watching with deep satisfaction as she took a big bite, a tiny bit of white sugar dusting the tip of her nose.