The two NYPD beat cops strolled up to the hotdog cart, their thumbs hooked lazily into their utility belts.
The sun had completely set while they were arguing, the evening sky surrendering to the deep, inky black of a New York night. The glow of the streetlamps and neon signs cast harsh shadows across their faces.
"What seems to be the problem here, Sal?" the taller cop asked the vendor.
"These two crazies are trying to steal from !" the vendor shouted, pointing a pair of greasy tongs at Aria. "She ate half a dog, and now sweater-vest here is threatening to ’buy my life’! They’re high on sothing!"
The cop sighed, turning his attention to Aria and Damien. "Alright. Let’s see so ID. Both of you."
"Officers, hi!" Aria chid in, her voice pitching up into a frantic, overly-friendly squeak. "There’s just been a silly misunderstanding! My husband just left his wallet in his other... sweater vest. We were just leaving!"
"ID, ma’am," the cop repeated, completely unimpressed. He took a step forward, his hand resting casually near his radio. "Now. Or you’re both coming down to the precinct to get fingerprinted."
Precinct. Fingerprints.
Aria’s heart plumted. She didn’t hesitate for a single microsecond.
"Bail!" Aria shrieked.
She grabbed Damien’s hand, using her entire body weight to violently yank him backward before the cop could even reach for his cuffs.
"Hey!" the cop yelled as they broke away.
"Run!" Aria scread, dragging her billionaire husband into a sprint down the sidewalk.
"Aria, what are you doing?!" Damien roared, stumbling slightly as she pulled him into the chaotic swarm of night-ti pedestrians.
"Running from the cops!" Aria yelled over her shoulder.
The flashing red and blue lights of the police cruiser flared to life behind them, casting chaotic shadows against the storefronts. A short siren blipped, a warning sound that sent a massive surge of adrenaline straight through Aria’s veins.
She was thriving. Her chunky, orthotic-looking sneakers provided absolutely phenonal traction on the concrete. She was weaving through bewildered tourists, violently bumping shoulders with a group of teenagers trying to take a selfie, and dodging trash cans with the agility of a pro athlete.
Damien, however, was fighting for his life.
The wool of the vintage argyle sweater was actively chafing his neck. And the forty pounds of synthetic foam padding strapped to his torso created an absurd amount of drag. He aggressively shoulder-checked a businessman holding a briefcase, ignoring the man’s angry shout, and kept running.
"I am going to buy that cart," Damien panted, slipping slightly on a discarded flyer but recovering his footing, "and I am going to launch it into the sun!"
Aria laughed—a wild, breathless sound that was instantly swallowed by the city noise.
Damien looked at her as they ran. Her mousy brown wig was slipping backward, revealing the edge of her natural rose-gold hairline. She was dragging him away from the law, giggling like a lunatic.
He was furious. He was annoyed. He was humiliated.
But sohow, he had never felt more alive.
"In here!" Aria gasped, hooking a sharp right.
She pushed open the heavy glass door of Maison de Blanche - Bridal. A delicate silver bell chid above them as they burst inside. The boutique was brightly lit, slling of fresh lilies, expensive tulle, and vanilla room spray.
Outside, the wail of police sirens grew louder.
"Down!" Aria hissed.
She dragged him right into the massive front window display area. They hit the floor, scrambling behind three towering, faceless mannequins draped in fifty thousand dollars’ worth of French lace and heavy silk skirts.
Aria shoved her back flat against the cool glass of the window, pulling Damien down with her. They were completely obscured from the street and the rest of the store by the cascading wedding dresses.
The flashing red and blue lights of the police cruiser washed over the street outside. The lights pierced through the boutique windows, casting strange, strobing shadows over their faces as the car slowly rolled past.
They were trapped between the glass and the tulle, their bodies pressed flush together in the tiny, confined space.
Damien ripped the smudged, wire-rimd reading glasses off his face and tossed them onto the carpeted floor. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving against hers, the fat suit acting like a suffocating furnace.
Aria was panting, her erald eyes wide and bright in the shadows of the display. She looked up at him, the thrill of the chase still buzzing in her blood.
The sirens faded down the block. They hadn’t been spotted.
Damien shifted his weight, crowding her further against the window. His large hands ca up to fra her face, his thumbs pressing into her jawline.
"You are absolutely insane," Damien whispered.
"There were no other options," Aria whispered back, her lips re milliters from his. "If they caught us, we would’ve gone to jail. And I’m certain we wouldn’t survive jail." She smiled teasingly, "You, especially, wouldn’t survive."
"This was, unequivocally, the worst evening of my entire life," Damien sighed as his gaze fell to her mouth.
"But you had fun," Aria teased, her breath mingling with his.
Damien rolled his eyes, then leaned in, fully intending to kiss her right there behind the mannequins.
"Ahem."
The sound of soone clearing their throat echoed politely from just behind the display stage.
Damien froze, his lips hovering a hair’s breadth from Aria’s.
Aria stopped breathing.
They both slowly turned their heads, peering through a gap in the wedding dresses.
Standing there, holding a clipboard and looking deeply bewildered, was a perfectly grood bridal consultant. She looked at Damien’s mustard sweater and Aria’s frumpy trench coat with a mixture of professional courtesy and slight revulsion.
"Welco to Maison de Blanche," the consultant said, her custor-service smile strained to the absolute limit. "While we do encourage passion in our newly engaged couples, the Vera Wang window display is not a private fitting room. Can I... interest you in a brochure?"
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