Ashes of Love; Fire of Vengeance

Today is supposed to be my wedding day. But instead of saying “I do,” I keep staring at the doors, waiting for my groom.

Standing at the altar. Alone.

The hall still glitters as if the ceremony never stopped. Chandeliers are blazing, tulips and roses are spilling fragrance into the air. I see the guests whisper in corners, pretending not to stare at me. The violinists have stopped playing our song long ago, but the melody still hums inside my chest.

My makeup is supposed to make me feel beautiful. Dewy skin, rose lips, soft shimmer on my eyelids, everything the way he likes. The artist said I looked like a dream. I did. Until the dream ended. Now, the blush on my cheeks is just leftover hope, my mascara has drowned in tears, and the lipstick that once promised forever is nothing but a blurred memory. Every stroke of perfection is melting down my face like my plans, my faith, my composure. I wanted him to see me radiant. Instead, I’m here, smudged, trembling, and waiting for someone who is nowhere to be found.

For two years, I planned this day. Every flower, every light, every thread of my gown, all chosen with him in mind. I thought of how his eyes would soften when he saw me walk down the aisle. I thought I’d see tears, not absence.

He worked so hard for this. For us. When the world called him unworthy of a Smith, he only smiled and said, “They’ll change their minds once they see what I can build for you.” And he did, brick by brick, through the storm called the Hale family.

His father, Richard Hale, never raised him. They called him the heir, but never gave him a meal. He washed dishes at restaurants while his father dined at five-star hotels. I used to hate that about the Hales, how they could starve their own blood and still wear pride like perfume. They only like the idea of generosity, not the act itself.

My father, Peter Smith, once told me, “You could marry anyone in this country. Why him?”

“Because he would still choose me if I had nothing,” I said.

They threatened him, tried to buy him off, humiliate him, and thought of ruining him. He never broke. “I would die, Jenny,” he once whispered, “but I couldn’t live without you.”

I still remember the first day I saw him after he returned from the States. I had just turned eighteen that day, but I was still so naive. I carried a plate of cakes to his room, nervous and bold at the same time.

After a soft “come in”, I stepped inside, heart pounding. He had just come out of the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist. I froze, unable to look away; practically gawking at his abs. My heart raced, my breath caught somewhere between shock and desire.

He turned, confident, as if he already knew how I was silently dreaming about him. Still, he asked, his voice low and seductive, “Why are you here?”

“It’s my eighteenth birthday,” I said, holding out the plate.

He studied me, too long, too carefully, and then his expression softened, shifting ever so slightly. “So… you’re an adult now?”

I nodded, unable to meet his gaze.

He hesitated. I saw it, that flicker of restraint before something warmer broke through. Then he stepped closer and said softly, “Don't you want a gift? Let me give you something to remember.”

His lips brushed mine. The world blurred. I froze, unable to think or move. He kissed me again, gentler, then deeper, again and again, until the air itself felt too heavy to breathe. When I finally found my voice, I whispered, “What are you doing?”

He smiled faintly. “Giving you your birthday gift. Don’t you like it?”

I didn’t answer. I just turned and ran, my heart pounding so hard it hurt. But that moment never left me.

After that, every time he found me alone, he kissed me, in hallways, gardens, doorways. And I never stopped him. At first, I told myself it was wrong; then I stopped telling myself anything. It became our language; unspoken, fevered, ours.

Soon I began waking earlier, just to see him before he left for work. He said my kiss made his day “start right.” I waited for him every night, because he couldn’t sleep without seeing me. He couldn’t sleep without me beside him. If I wasn’t on his business trips, he’d cancel them. When he couldn’t, he’d call all night, watching me drift into sleep.

That’s how our love grew, quietly, obsessively, until the line between affection and dependence blurred.

My twin cousins, his stepsisters, Sasha and Sara, always covered for us. They were the only ones who loved him inside that cold fortress of the Hales.

Eventually, our families surrendered. Our engagement became the talk of the city, the prodigal heir and the industrialist’s daughter, finally united. We moved into our apartment soon after, five thousand square feet of dreams. Every chair, every lamp, and every spoon, we bought together.

Adrian insisted I use his black card, saying, “You’re my person now, I will bear all your expenses from now on. Don't ask for money from your father."

Just last night, before dropping me at my father's home, he kissed my forehead and said, “See you at the altar.”

This morning, I woke up believing in forever. I went to the makeup artist to get my wedding makeup. It took nearly four hours to make it flawless. Every brushstroke, every shimmer had to be impeccable. I wanted everything to be perfect.

When he texted, “Send me a picture,” I laughed. “No, it’s bad luck,” I said. “Elders say we shouldn’t see each other before the wedding.”

He replied, “I don’t believe in superstitions, Jenny. I just need to see you.”

So I sent him one. He reacted with a heart.

I texted back, “Why do you love me so much?”

He saw it, but didn’t reply.

Some questions don’t need answers.

Some silences do.

Because now, as the chandeliers still glitter and the roses still bloom, everyone waits for the groom.

And my groom, Adrian Hale, never came.