Wedding eve

The night before the wedding was the quietest night Mary had ever known. It was not the peaceful quiet of rest or safety, but the oppressive silence of a graveyard, the kind that pressed in on the ears until even breathing felt too loud. The house itself seemed to be holding its breath, waiting.

Her father had taken no chances.

The window in her room had been nailed shut from the outside, thick boards crisscrossed over the glass so that even moonlight struggled to get through. A single lamp glowed dimly on her bedside table, casting long, distorted shadows across the walls. Outside her bedroom door, a guard sat in a chair.

She could hear him occasionally shifting his weight, clearing his throat, reminding her that she was not alone even when she desperately wanted to be.

She had been stripped of everything. No phone. No books. No paper or pen. Nothing that could distract her or offer escape. There would be no last messages sent, no prayers written, no plans made. Her father wanted her empty. Focused. Broken into compliance.

Mary sat on the floor in the center of her room, her knees pulled tightly to her chest, her arms wrapped around them as if she could hold herself together by force alone. She could not sit on the bed. The sight of the white sheets made her stomach lurch. They were too clean, too deliberate. They reminded her of what was expected of her tomorrow night and the thought sent a bolt of panic through her so sharp she had to press her hand against her mouth to keep from crying out.

Her chest felt tight, as if something heavy were resting on it.

She rocked slightly where she sat, a small, unconscious motion, trying to soothe herself the way she used to as a child. The room smelled faintly of polish and flowers, a scent meant to suggest luxury but which only made her feel sick.

Mary reached up and slid her hand into the pillowcase on the bed. Her fingers closed around cold metal, and a small rush of relief went through her. Slowly, carefully, she pulled out the one thing she had managed to hide. The gold locket fit neatly in her palm, worn smooth from years of handling. She opened it with a trembling thumb.

Inside was her mother’s picture.

The image was faded now, the edges soft, but her mother’s eyes were still kind, still alive in a way that made Mary’s throat ache. She traced the tiny oval frame with her fingertip, committing every detail to memory as if she might lose it by morning.

“Why didn’t you take me with you?” Mary whispered into the dark, her voice barely more than breath. “Why did you leave me here?”

Her words fell into the silence and vanished.

The memories came whether she wanted them or not. The smell of her mother’s rose scented perfume, light and sweet, clinging to scarves and pillowcases. The gentle tug of fingers through her hair as her mother brushed it before bed, hands trembling just enough for Mary to notice. She remembered lying still, pretending to sleep, while her mother sat on the edge of the bed, her quiet sobs breaking through the stillness of the night.

She remembered the fear in her mother’s eyes.

She remembered the way Arthur’s voice used to change when he spoke to her mother. How it would drop, harden, lose all warmth. The same cold, ownership driven tone he now used with Mary. As if love were a transaction. As if obedience were the only currency that mattered.

A sudden, frantic energy seized her.

Mary scrambled to her feet and ran to the door, her bare feet slapping softly against the floor. She grabbed the handle and rattled it violently, panic overriding caution.

“Let me out,” she cried. “Please. Please let me out.”

She pounded against the wood with her fist, the sound dull and hopeless. Her heart raced as if escape might still be possible if she just tried hard enough.

The guard’s voice came through the door, bored and flat, untouched by her desperation. “Go to sleep, Miss Sterling. You have a big day tomorrow.”

“I’ll give you money,” she sobbed. “I have jewelry. Anything you want.” Her voice cracked as tears streamed down her face. “Just let me run. I’ll disappear. He’ll never find me. I swear.”

There was a pause. She held her breath, clinging to the smallest thread of hope.

“Go to sleep,” the guard said again.

That was all.

Mary’s strength left her in a rush. She slid down the door until she was curled on the floor, her forehead pressed against the cool wood. The sobs came then, deep and uncontrollable, tearing out of her chest in painful gasps. Her lungs burned. Her throat hurt. She cried the way a child cries when something precious has been taken away forever.

Her thoughts turned, unwillingly, to Silas.

She tried to push the image away, but it forced itself into her mind. His heavy hands. The way his eyes lingered on her, assessing, appraising, as if she were livestock. The thin smile he wore when he spoke to her father, already certain of his purchase.

The thought made her want to claw at her own skin.

She spent the rest of the night pacing the room, walking the same worn path from window to door and back again. Time stretched and warped. Every creak of the house sounded like a warning. Every shadow felt like it was watching her.

Each hour, the grandfather clock in the hall chimed.

Her heart kept beating, stubborn and terrified, refusing to give up even when her mind begged it to.

As the first gray light of dawn crept through the cracks in the boarded up window, Mary finally stopped pacing. Her legs felt weak. Her body ached with exhaustion. She sat down at her vanity and stared at her reflection in the mirror.

She barely recognized herself.

Her eyes were red rimmed and dull. Her skin looked pale and stretched, as if all the warmth had been drained from it overnight. There was a knock at the door.

Mary did not flinch.

The door opened, and Elena stepped inside, already all business, already moving on to the next task.

“It’s time,” she said. “The hair and makeup team are here. The car leaves in four hours.”

Mary stood up slowly. Her heart felt like a stone in her chest, heavy and unmoving. She did not resist when Elena guided her to the chair. She did not flinch when cold hands touched her face, when brushes swept over her skin, when layers of paint began to transform her into something presentable.

She stared straight ahead into the mirror, watching herself disappear.