Chapter 1: The Missing Bride

The first thing I noticed when I came home was that Sophia had left the kitchen light on.

She never did that.

My sister could walk through a dark hallway without turning on a single light, but leaving one burning in an empty room was somehow unacceptable to her. She used to say our electricity bill was already high enough without us wasting it on rooms nobody was using.

I dropped my keys into the little ceramic bowl beside the door and looked toward the kitchen.

The light was still on.

“Sophia?”

No answer.

I glanced at the clock above the living-room television.

11:43 p.m.

The house was unusually quiet for a Thursday night. Usually, by this time, Mother would be asleep upstairs, Father would still be in his study, and Sophia would be somewhere nearby pretending to work on wedding arrangements while actually scrolling through her phone.

Three days.

That was all the time left before her wedding.

Three days before Sophia Veyra became Mrs. Lucien Moretti.

The thought alone made something uncomfortable move through my chest.

I walked into the kitchen.

Two wine glasses sat on the counter.

One was empty.

The other was untouched.

I frowned.

“Sophia?”

Still nothing.

I picked up the untouched glass. The wine inside was warm.

Sophia hated warm wine.

She would rather drink water than finish a glass that had been sitting out too long.

I put it down.

That was when I noticed the back door.

It was slightly open.

Cold air slipped through the gap and moved the curtain beside it.

I stared at the door for a few seconds before walking over.

The backyard was dark.

The security lights were on, but there was no one outside. The flower beds were undisturbed. The iron gate remained locked.

I closed the door and checked the lock.

Then I heard something upstairs.

A soft sound.

Like something falling.

I looked toward the staircase.

“Sophia?”

Nothing.

I went upstairs.

Her bedroom door was closed.

That was strange too.

Sophia never closed it unless she was changing or angry with someone.

I knocked twice.

“Soph?”

No response.

I opened the door.

Her room looked normal at first.

Her cream curtains were pulled across the windows. The bed was made. A wedding magazine lay open beside her lamp, its pages covered with small circles and handwritten notes.

Then I saw the wardrobe.

The right side was almost empty.

I stopped.

Sophia had three wardrobes.

She needed all three.

She owned enough dresses to open a small boutique, and somehow she had managed to remove almost everything from one of them without me noticing.

I walked closer.

Empty hangers swung slightly.

A drawer was open.

Her passport was gone.

Her jewelry box was gone.

The small black suitcase she kept beneath her bed was gone too.

My stomach dropped.

“No.”

I pulled out my phone and called her.

The call went straight to voicemail.

I called again.

Nothing.

I tried a third time.

Still nothing.

I opened our messages.

The last message from Sophia was from six hours earlier.

Don't wait up. I have something to do.

I stared at it.

That was not unusual enough to frighten me.

The fact that she had not told me what she was doing was.

Sophia told me everything.

At least, she used to.

I sat on the edge of her bed and looked around the room again.

There was no sign of a struggle.

No broken furniture.

No blood.

Nothing that screamed danger.

Just absence.

Her favorite perfume was missing from the dresser.

Her handbag was gone.

Even the framed photograph of the two of us from our twenty-first birthday was missing.

My fingers went cold.

Someone had not simply taken Sophia.

Sophia had packed.

She had planned this.

I stood up and searched the room again, opening drawers and checking beneath the bed.

Nothing.

Then I noticed something beneath the pillow.

A small envelope.

My name was written across it.

ANASTASIA.

I picked it up.

For a moment, I just stared at my own name.

Then I opened it.

There was only one sentence inside.

Do not trust the groom.

My heart stopped for half a second.

Lucien Moretti.

The name was enough to explain the fear that had suddenly settled over me.

Everyone knew who Lucien was.

He was the head of the Moretti organization, one of the most powerful criminal families in the city. His name rarely appeared in newspapers, but people whispered it in restaurants, clubs, offices and police stations.

Cold.

Ruthless.

Untouchable.

And in three days, Sophia was supposed to marry him.

I read the sentence again.

Do not trust the groom.

“What did you get yourself into, Sophia?”

The bedroom door opened behind me.

I turned.

Mother stood there.

Her face changed the moment she saw the letter in my hand.

“You found it.”

The words came out quietly.

I stared at her.

“You knew?”

She did not answer.

“Mother.”

Her eyes moved toward the empty wardrobe.

For a moment, she looked tired.

Not surprised.

Not confused.

Tired.

That scared me more than anything else.

“Where is she?”

“She left.”

“Where?”

“I don't know.”

I laughed once, but there was nothing funny about it.

“You don't know?”

“She came to me tonight.”

My grip closed around the letter.

“What did she say?”

Mother looked toward the hallway before lowering her voice.

“She said she could not marry him.”

“Why?”

“She would not tell me.”

“You let her leave?”

“She is an adult, Anastasia.”

“She is your daughter.”

Mother flinched.

I stepped closer.

“Did Father know?”

She looked away.

That was my answer.

Before I could ask another question, footsteps sounded downstairs.

Heavy.

Slow.

Father.

Mother's face changed again.

“Give me the letter.”

“No.”

“Anastasia.”

“No.”

She reached for it.

I stepped back.

“What is going on?”

“Your father will explain.”

That was when I knew something was seriously wrong.

My father never explained anything.

He gave orders.

He expected obedience.

And when people refused, he reminded them exactly what their refusal would cost.

He appeared at the bedroom doorway seconds later.

Dimitri Veyra looked at me first.

Then at the letter.

Then at the empty wardrobe.

His expression did not change.

That frightened me most of all.

“Where is Sophia?” I asked.

He walked into the room.

“She is gone.”

“I know.”

“She cannot come back.”

“Why?”

He stopped in front of me.

“You will marry Lucien Moretti.”

For several seconds, I thought I had misunderstood him.

Then I laughed.

A short, disbelieving sound.

“No.”

“You will marry him on Saturday.”

“No.”

“Anastasia—”

“I said no.”

Father reached inside his jacket.

The movement was quick.

I saw the gun before I saw his hand fully raised.

The barrel pointed directly at me.

Everything inside me went still.

Mother whispered his name.

“Dimitri.”

He did not look at her.

His eyes stayed on mine.

“You have until Saturday morning to become Sophia.”

I stared at the gun.

Then at my father.

Then at the empty wardrobe behind him.

Three days ago, Sophia had been complaining about wedding flowers.

Tonight, she had disappeared.

And my father was pointing a gun at me because he expected me to take her place.

I swallowed.

“Where is Sophia really going?”

Father's jaw moved.

“She is no longer your concern.”

“She is my sister.”

“She made her choice.”

“And you are making mine?”

“Yes.”

The answer came without hesitation.

I looked at Mother.

She was crying now, silently, one hand pressed against her mouth.

“Mother?”

She could not meet my eyes.

That hurt more than the gun.

I looked back at Father.

“You cannot force me to marry a man I have never met.”

“I can.”

His voice was calm.

“If you refuse, someone else will pay for it.”

My blood ran cold.

“Who?”

Father lowered the gun slightly.

“Someone you care about.”

I stopped breathing.

He knew exactly where to aim.

Not at my body.

At the people I loved.

I looked once more at Sophia's empty wardrobe.

Then at the wedding dress hanging inside the garment bag beside the window.

White silk.

Pearls.

A veil.

Waiting for a bride who had already disappeared.

Father's voice came quietly from across the room.

“Choose, Anastasia.”

And for the first time that night, I understood something.

Sophia had not simply run away from her wedding.

She had been running from something.

And now whatever she was running from was coming for me.