The Dead Bride

That night, everything was arranged.

I cleaned every room until the place smelled like lemon and glass cleaner instead of my life. I lit candles and incense, set fresh flowers in vases, checked the table, checked the sofa, checked the mirror.

Then I showered, did my makeup, sprayed perfume, and slipped into matching lingerie and a silk nightdress that was one strong breeze away from illegal.

The doorbell rang on schedule.

I opened the door and gave the man standing there a shy, carefully practiced smile. “You’re here.”

His gaze moved over me once, clinical as a thermometer. His brows drew together. “Aren’t you cold?”

So he did know words. Just not the useful ones.

“I’m fine.” I hooked my arm through his before he could retreat and pulled him inside.

The dining table was set. A bottle of wine breathed in the center, two glasses waiting. I had decided, very calmly, that tonight I was going to sleep with this man.

He slid his arm from my grasp and looked around as if he’d stepped into a maintenance job instead of an invitation. “Which light is broken?”

Right. The excuse.

“I think it’s the ceiling light in my bedroom,” I said sweetly.

Breaking that stupid fixture had taken more effort than seducing most men.

He went straight to the bedroom. Tool bag, switch, ceiling. Efficient. Competent. Fast.

By the time I took two steps toward him with my best I might fall on you body language, the light snapped on, bright and whole.

Fastest man I’d ever seen in my life, and he’d used that talent in exactly the wrong place.

I swallowed my disappointment, smiled as if this had all been about home safety. “Thank you. You worked so hard, let me at least pour you a drink.”

“I don’t drink,” he said. “And you should cut back.”

Of course you don’t.

I softened my voice, nudged closer. “I bought it especially for you. It wasn’t cheap. Just one glass? Keep me company?”

I let my body lean into him, slow and warm.

He stepped back out of reach, expression flat. “It’s late. I should go.”

I wanted to strangle him.

He either didn’t catch the look I gave him or chose not to. He walked out, opened the door, and left my apartment without a backward glance.

The hallway was cold, but I went after him anyway, silk hem fluttering around my thighs. I caught him by the sleeve just as he reached the elevator.

“I dressed like this for you,” I said, teeth chattering more from humiliation than the air. “You’re really just leaving?”

He glanced down at me, completely unmoved. “Go to bed.”

The elevator doors opened. He stepped in and disappeared behind polished metal.

I stood there for a moment, bare legs prickling, then turned back inside, slammed the door, and grabbed the wine.

The cork came out in one angry twist. I drank straight from the neck as I staggered back toward the bedroom.

The repaired ceiling light burned overhead, bright enough to be insulting.

The room looked ordinary at first glance. Bed, bedside table, wardrobe. Only someone paying close attention would notice the faint lines in the wall opposite the bed. Hairline seams. A slightly different shadow.

I pressed my palm to one of them and pushed.

Something inside the wall clicked.

A narrow panel swung inward, silent and smooth.

Darkness breathed out from the hidden room. No light, no sound.

I stepped inside and reached for the heavy curtains, yanking them open.

A small, square window faced the night. The sky outside was clear, the stars sharp, the moon bright enough to cast a pale rectangle on the floor.

Beautiful. Smugly so.

“I went to all that trouble,” I muttered, swirling the bottle. “He wouldn’t even have a sip.”

Behind me, I heard it: the faint drag of metal on metal. Chains shifting.

I turned and smiled. “So you drink with me instead. How about that?”

Moonlight spilled across the floor and onto the man kneeling at its center.

He was tall, or would have been standing up. Now his spine was straight only because the chains didn’t allow him to slouch. Iron wrapped his wrists, his ankles, his waist, his throat. Where metal met skin, the flesh was raw and mottled, stained with old blood that had dried dark.

He lifted his head with effort. His face was too pale. His eyes were glassy but still focused on mine, like it took everything he had to manage that simple act.

After a few seconds, he found a ghost of a smile. “Alright.”

Something in my stomach turned.

That smile disgusted me more than the blood ever could.

⸻

That day was my wedding day.

I had imagined it since I was old enough to understand the concept of “happily ever after.” The dress, the aisle, the flowers. The man waiting at the end.

I finally had all of it.

I wore a gown I’d spent weeks choosing. The red carpet glowed under my feet. Light spilled from chandeliers, bathing the chapel in warmth. Friends and family lined the pews, eyes gentle, approving.

Three years with Aron White, and this was where we landed.

We met in college. He started pursuing me freshman year with a persistence that might have been annoying if it hadn’t also been earnest. I accepted him when we graduated. Last Christmas, he knelt in the middle of a crowded karaoke room, ring in hand, and I said yes.

We set the wedding for Valentine’s Day. Today.

I stood at the altar. Aron’s hand circled mine, familiar and solid. I thought, This is it. This might actually be the happiest day of my life.

The pastor raised his Bible and began the question that would tie our lives together.

“Estelle Jones, do you—”

The chapel doors opened.

Not slammed, not kicked. Just pushed, with a kind of calculated timing that sliced directly through the pastor’s words.

A man in a white tailcoat stepped inside.