Sabotaged at the Altar

I stood in front of the mirror in the little prep room behind Millbrook's chapel, trying to slow my racing heart. Sunlight streamed through the window, warming my white dress. Today was it—my wedding to Caleb Morrison.

Three years. Three whole years since I'd moved to this town, scared and alone. Now I was about to be his wife. Sometimes it felt too good to be real.

I touched the lace on my dress. Simple but pretty, exactly what I wanted. Nothing crazy fancy—just enough to see that look in Caleb's eyes when I walked down the aisle.

Voices and footsteps outside. The girls must be here. I checked my phone—9:15. The makeup artist should show up any minute.

Someone knocked.

"Come in." I turned around, expecting Ella, my makeup artist.

Wrong person entirely. A stranger walked in, maybe late twenties, with golden-brown hair pulled back and all-black work clothes. Her green eyes flickered with something weird when she saw me, but she quickly went professional.

"Hi, I'm doing your makeup today," she said. Her voice sounded cold.

I frowned. "Sorry, but I booked Ella. You are...?"

"Ella had an emergency. I'm covering for her." She dropped her makeup case harder than necessary. "We should start. Time's tight."

Something felt off. Couldn't put my finger on it. Maybe just wedding nerves making me paranoid.

"Okay." I sat back down. "I want something natural, nothing too heavy—"

"I know what I'm doing." She cut me off, already digging through her supplies.

Her hands were rough. The foundation brush felt harsh, way too much pressure. I tried catching her eye in the mirror, but she worked with this intense focus, face serious as hell.

I'm overthinking this. Every makeup artist has their style. She's probably just focused.

But as she kept going, my stomach started twisting. The foundation was totally wrong—way too pale, making me look sick.

"This shade..." I started carefully. "Isn't it kinda light?"

"It's perfect for you." Didn't even look up, just kept smearing the wrong color on my face.

I watched myself in the mirror. My heart sank. I looked like I had the flu, not like someone getting married in an hour.

"Maybe we should try again." I started to get up.

Her hand pressed down on my shoulder, pushing me back. "Stay put. We're not done."

Now she was going for my eyes, reaching for this ugly gray eyeshadow—the kind that makes anyone look exhausted.

"Hold on." I grabbed her wrist. "I don't want that color. I asked for warm and natural."

She stopped and looked at me in the mirror. For a split second, I saw it clearly—not professional attitude, but actual hate.

"Think you deserve warm and natural?" she said quietly, voice dripping with something I didn't understand.

"What?" I stared at her.

She didn't answer. Just kept applying that awful gray shadow, pressing hard. Then came the lipstick—this barely-there pale pink that made me look like death warmed over.

I tried getting up again. "This isn't working. I need someone else."

"No time." She smiled, and it wasn't nice. "Besides, this look totally suits you."

She started packing up fast, movements sharp and angry.

I stared at myself. Didn't even recognize the person looking back. This wasn't bridal makeup—this was sabotage.

"Who are you?" Anger finally kicked in. "Why would you do this?"

She stopped packing and faced me full-on. No hiding the malice now.

"Me? I just gave you exactly what you deserve." Her voice was poison-sweet. "Like it?"

"You're insane!" I stood up. "I'm reporting you! This was totally on purpose!"

She finished packing, wearing that satisfied smile. "Report away. Good luck with that, especially today."

My hands shook—anger, fear, couldn't tell which. This woman obviously did this deliberately, but why? I'd never seen her before. We had zero history.

"Why?" My voice cracked. "It's my wedding day. I never hurt you or anyone."

She walked to the door, paused with her hand on the handle. When she looked back, her stare made my skin crawl.

"Vera Sinclair." She said my name slow and deliberate. "You'll figure it out soon enough."

The door slammed. Left me alone with my wrecked reflection.

I grabbed wet wipes, frantically trying to scrub off the makeup. Everything was waterproof. Damn near permanent. It was 10:45—ceremony started at eleven. No time to fix this disaster.

Tears threatened, but I forced them back. Crying would just make everything worse.

Emily burst through the door.

"Vera, you ready? Everyone's here and Caleb's up front waiting—" She stopped dead, staring at me in horror. "Holy shit, what happened? You look..."

"Like hell, I know." I laughed, but it sounded bitter. "The makeup artist had... issues."

Emily came closer, studying my face. "This doesn't look like a mistake. This looks deliberate. What's going on?"

Before I could explain, her phone rang. She answered, and I watched her face go white.

"What? When? Okay, okay, I'll tell her right now."

She hung up and looked at me with this mix of sympathy and terror.

"Vera..." Her voice shook. "Your house is on fire."

Everything stopped. I heard the words, but my brain refused to process them.

"What?"

"Fire department just got the call. Big fire at your place. Caleb already headed out with his crew."

Blood drained from my face. My house. Everything I owned. All Dad's stuff...

"I have to go!" I grabbed my skirt, ready to run.

"Vera, wait!" Emily caught my arm. "The wedding—"

"What wedding?!" I yanked free. "My house is burning down!"