The Bloodstained Bride

CHAPTER 2

(The Blood Stained Bride)

The bridal suite had turned into a storm. Lauren's body was long gone. Swiftly taken away by Fairchild security… but the scent of her perfume and the coppery tang of blood clung to the air like ghosts.

Anna sat frozen on the velvet chaise, her face still stinging from her step mother's slap, her hands trembling in her lap.

The voices of the families clashed around her, a whirlwind of rage, denial and cold calculation.

She felt as though she were caught in the eye of a hurricane, powerless, invisible… yet marked.

“Canceling is not an option,” Mrs. Lancaster declared, her ice blue eyes narrowing to blades.

She stood like a queen issuing decrees, diamonds gleaming at her throat, every inch of her posture exuding authority.

“We cannot afford whispers. Do you want the press clawing into this like vultures? Do you want a major scandal splashed across tomorrow's headlines?”

Her husband's voice faltered. He looked pale and stressed. “But Margaret, she was—”

“Dead,” Margaret spat the word like venom, as though speaking it might absolve her.

“And who's fault is it that my baby's dead? Hers.” Her fingers slashed toward Anna like a whip.

The room stilled.

Every eye turned to Anna, burning with blame, suspicion or pity. Her throat closed up. 

She wanted to vanish and wake up in her narrow bed back home and find this was all a nightmare.

But alas reality was merciless.

William Fairchild still stood silent in the corner, towering and unreadable. His black suit, immaculate despite the chaos swirling around him.

He hasn't spoken once the decree had been made. But his silence was heavier than any words.

He was the only one who could have contradicted Margaret, and yet he did not.

Margaret struck the final blow.

“Send all the dresses away at once.” She ordered the maids, her voice clipped and merciless.

Anna's head snapped up. “What?”

Margaret turned to her, expression sharp enough to draw blood. “Lauren's gowns. All of them. Send them back. Every pearl, every stitch. She won't need them anymore.”

Anna blinked, her heart thundering. “But… what will I wear?”

A cruel smile curved Margaret's mouth. “Why Lauren's dress, of course. The one she died in.”

The words hit Anna like a punch to the gut. Her throat closed, bile rising as her gaze flicked to the garment bag draped across the chair… the dress that Margaret peeled off Lauren's lifeless body not even an hour ago, the satin still stained with her sister's blood, crimson blooming like poisonous roses.

“No…” The whisper tore from her, ragged. “No, please, I can't—”

Margaret's hand shot out, fisting Anna's chin so tightly that pain surged down her jaw. “You will.”

Tears blurred Anna's vision. “Please, I beg you. Don't make me—”

The sharp crack of Margaret's palm silenced her, burning across her cheek, igniting humiliation hotter than flame.

“You have no right to beg,” Margaret hissed, her eyes glittering with loathing.

“Do you think anyone will notice? They'll call it daring. A new trend. 

They'll think the stains are part of the embroidery. Lauren was fashion itself… always ahead of the world. And you… you should be grateful you're steeping into her shoes at all.”

Anna shook her head desperately. “It's cursed…”

“Cursed?” Margaret's laugh was cruel, hollow.

“No Anna. You are cursed. You were born of sin, a mistake this family has carried like a scar.

And now you'll serve your penance. Wearing my daughter's dress is the highest honor your wretched life will ever know.”

Sobs wracked through Anna's body but no one came to her defense. 

Her father's face was buried in his hands, his shoulders trembling. He said nothing. Did nothing and that silence hurt more than any slap.

Margaret Lancaster looked on with cold satisfaction.

And William… William only stared, as if this was a game he hadn't yet decided whether or not to play.

Helena's voice sliced through the silence, mocking and sweet. “She'll ruin the photos, you know. Red doesn't suit her complexion.”

“Helena—” Katherine Fairchild muttered, but she rolled her eyes.

“Oh come now Mother, we're all thinking about it. Look at her. She looks like a frightened rabbit. Pathetic.” 

Helena tilted her head, ruby lips curling into a smirk. “At least Lauren had poise and control, she could hold her liquor and her dignity.”

Katherine whispered a prayer under her breath, but Helena's laughter drowned it out like a vulture's cry.

“Enough,” Margaret snapped. Her face cut to Anna. “Dress her. Now.”

The maids moved swiftly. They dragged the gown forward, its satin stiff where Lauren's blood had dried, the ivory silk marred with grotesque blooms across the bodice.

Anna's stomach lurched violently. “I can't,” she whispered again, but her protest was drowned as the maids seized her, pulling at her plain blue dress, stripping her bare under the weight of so many watchful eyes.

Humiliation burned hotter than fire. She tried to fight but her arms were weak, her voice broken. 

The gown slid over her shoulders, damp in patches, smelling of roses and iron.

As the veil lowered over her head, she caught her reflection in the mirror. For a moment, she didn't recognize herself. 

The satin clung to her, ghostlike, crimson shadows flowing across the ivory.

She looked like a corpse rising from the grave.

A broken doll, dressed in another woman's death.

From the corner William's gaze sharpened. He had known cruelty… he had lived among it, commanded it… but even he felt a flicker of something foreign as he watched Anna tremble under the weight of the bloodied dress.

Weakness. He told himself. She was weak. A mere pawn shoved into place to salvage reputations. That was all she was.

And yet…

Her wide, tear-filled eyes lifted just once, meeting him across the room. For a fleeting second, William felt the faintest crack in his own armor.

Then it was gone.

********

Margaret's voice shattered the silence. “Wipe her face. No tears at the altar. She is Lauren now.”

The maids dabbed at Anna's skin with powder until the red blotches of her shame were hidden.

Helena circled her like a vulture, perfume cloying, lips curved as though she were savoring her ruin. “Perfect,” she purred.

“No one will know she's not the bride until it's far too late.”

Her words slithered down Anna's spine like ice.

The doors to the suite burst open. “It's time.” a guard announced.

Time.

Time to walk into a church filled with guests, cameras and roses.

Time to marry a man who didn't want her.

Time to pretend her sister's corpse hadn't just been wheeled out the back door.

Mrs Lancaster's command fell like a guillotine.

“Take her to the altar.”

The maids gripped Anna's arms, pulling her forward. 

Each step felt heavier, as though she was wading through blood.

Helena leaned in one last time, whispering near her ear as she passed. “Don't trip, little mouse. They might think you killed her too.”

Anna's breath hitched.

And as the doors to the world yawned open before her, the truth struck like lightning…

She wasn't walking to a wedding.

She was walking to her execution.