The soft rustle of silk echoed in the dressing room.
Ivory lace clung to her skin like a second soul, perfectly fitted, delicately stitched. She stood before the mirror, a bride at twenty-three. Her dark hair curled into a graceful bun, with strands falling like whispers down her neck. Her makeup was flawless—eyes lined like poetry, lips painted a shy rose.
But her reflection didn't smile.
Alina.
That was her name. And in a few minutes, she was supposed to walk down the aisle and marry a man she barely knew but had agreed to—out of family duty, business arrangements, and emotional exhaustion.
"You look like a dream," her cousin whispered, eyes gleaming with pride.
Alina gave her a small nod. But inside her, something churned.
Dread.
Instinct.
A cold wind that had nothing to do with air conditioning.
In the Grand Hall
The chandeliers shimmered like captured stars. Golden roses lined the aisle. A hundred guests sat in perfect rows, murmuring softly, sipping champagne, waiting for the groom.
Then the doors opened.
And the room froze.
A man entered like sin wrapped in a tailored black suit.
He walked with the calm of a lion in a cage made of paper walls. His presence suffocated oxygen. Two men followed in silence—his guards—but they melted into the background, unimportant next to him.
The stranger's hair was dark, slicked back like wet ink. His jawline could cut through steel. A half-smile curled on his lips, predatory, amused.
He sat down at the VIP front row, reserved only for family.
Poured himself a glass of rum from the table without asking.
Sipped it like he was toasting to chaos.
Behind the Curtains
Alina stepped out into the hallway, the ceremonial march already echoing from the violins. She took a deep breath.
She expected her groom at the altar.
She expected a future she didn't want.
She expected her family's approval.
She did not expect the empty altar.
She paused mid-step. The crowd started murmuring. A soft, panicked ripple. Whispers floated like falling feathers:
"Where's the groom?"
"Did something happen?"
"He was here earlier…"
Her father was already rising from his seat, whispering urgently into his assistant's ear. Her mother looked pale, clutching her pearls like a lifeline.
Alina stood frozen.
And then she saw him.
The man in black.
Staring at her.
No—drinking her in.
He stood. Walked toward her. Each step thundered in her ears.
The Encounter
Alina's breath hitched. Her body stiffened. Her heels clicked once as she took an unconscious step back.
He smiled.
God, that smile. Lazy, cold, amused. Dangerous.
He leaned in close, so close his scent invaded her—cologne, smoke, and something masculine and forbidden.
His lips brushed her hair. She flinched.
Then he whispered, voice rough velvet:
"You look beautiful in that wedding dress, girl."
His warm breath touched her ear. Her heart jumped to her throat.
"I wonder…"
"How beautiful you'd look without it."
Her eyes widened in shock.
"What?!" she hissed, stepping back, glaring.
The man didn't flinch. He just turned casually to the guests, holding his glass up like a toast, wearing a grin of pure villainy.
"So… where is the groom?" he asked, loud enough for the hall to hear.
The guests stared. Silent. Confused. Terrified.
He chuckled. Took another slow sip. Then spoke again:
"Ah, yes… how forgetful of me."
He glanced back at Alina, eyes dark and gleaming with something unholy.
"I already buried him."
A pause.
"Alive."
His smirk stretched wider as gasps ripped through the hall like a gunshot. Women screamed. Someone dropped their wine. A man rose from his seat, only to be held back by one of the mafia leader's guards.
The man in black turned back to Alina, tilting his head as if watching a bird caught in a cage.
"Guess this wedding's over, sweetheart."
And with that, he turned and strolled back to his seat.
Unbothered.
Untouched.
Unholy.
TO BE CONTINUED.