Chapter 1: The Bride in the Mirror

The silence hit her first.

Not a calm, comforting kind. This silence buzzed in her ears, sharp and oppressive, tightening her throat. It draped the vast bedroom like a heavy curtain, broken only by the slow, relentless tick of an antique clock high on the wall.

She tried to sit up. Her body protested, muscles aching as if she’d been dragged through a storm. Her arms felt heavy, like wet fabric, and her skin prickled with cold beneath the silk sheets. The air carried a faint scent, old roses mixed with something sharp, like antiseptic or bandages.

Her fingers brushed her throat, finding rough, unfamiliar gauze.

She froze.

Her lips parted, but no sound came. Not a whisper, not a breath. She tried again, straining, her chest tightening with panic. A gasp, a cry, anything.

Nothing.

She couldn’t speak.

The door creaked open. She flinched, heart pounding.

A middle-aged woman in a pale uniform stepped inside, carrying a tray. Her eyes were kind, her hands gentle, but her smile felt rehearsed, too careful. “You’re awake,” she said softly, as if speaking to a frightened child. “Don’t panic, sweetheart. You’re safe. You’re at Blackwood Manor.”

Blackwood…, the name sliced through her mind, sharp and unfamiliar, like a shard of glass.

The woman set the tray on a small table beside the bed. “Try not to move too much. Your injuries are healing, but your voice, it’ll take time.”

She tried to form words, her jaw trembling with the effort. Nothing came.

“You had surgery,” the woman said, her tone gentle but measured. “Your vocal cords were badly damaged. You’re strong, though. You made it.”

Made it? The question burned in her mind. Made it through what?

The woman lifted the silver lid from the tray, revealing a bowl of soup, a glass of water, and a small dish of pills. “Eat when you’re ready,” she said. “Mr. Blackwood will be with you soon.”

The door closed softly, leaving her alone with the ticking clock and a flood of questions.

With effort, she pushed herself upright, ignoring the fire in her muscles. She shuffled across the room to a tall mirror framed between two windows, their heavy gray curtains drawn tight. Beyond them, mist curled along a cliff’s edge, and far below, the sea churned, its jagged waves barely visible.

A mansion on a cliff by the sea but none of it felt familiar.

She faced the mirror and nearly stumbled back. The reflection showed a bruised face, beautiful in a ghostly way. Dark eyes, sharp cheekbones, a mouth sealed by pain and silence. A gash, partially hidden by the bandage, curved along the left side of her neck.

The face was familiar, but not hers. Not entirely.

Who was she?

The door opened again, and this time it wasn’t the nurse.

A man stepped inside, moving with deliberate calm. Tall and lean, he wore a tailored black suit that made him look like a shadow given form. His face was unreadable, carved from stone, but his green eyes, sharp and sleepless, betrayed him.

Their gazes met.

“Bliss,” he said, his voice low, rough like gravel. “You’re awake.”

Bliss? She blinked, the name landing like a stranger’s.

“You don’t remember, do you?” he asked, watching her closely.

She shook her head, fingers grazing the bandage at her throat.

His jaw tightened, just for a moment. “That’s okay. The doctors warned us memory loss was possible.”

She gestured to a notepad on the bedside table. He handed it to her, along with a pen, his movements careful.

She wrote quickly. ‘Who are you?’

He read the words in silence. “I’m Damon. Damon Blackwood. Your husband.”

The pen slipped from her fingers, clattering to the floor.

He retrieved it, placing it back in her hand, his touch firm but gentle. “You were in an accident. We didn’t know if you’d survive. You made me promise not to overwhelm you if you woke up, said you didn’t want to remember until you were ready.”

Her hand shook as she wrote again. ‘What kind of accident?’

He looked away, just for a second, before meeting her eyes. “A fire. A car crash. It’s complicated. You’ll remember when the time comes.”

The words felt heavy, like a half-truth, settling uneasily in her chest.

She nodded anyway.

He sat on the edge of the bed, careful to keep his distance. “You’ve been unconscious for almost three weeks. Yesterday, when you first woke, you couldn’t speak. But you wrote my name. You remembered me, even if nothing else.”

She stared at him. She didn’t remember him at all.

She scribbled again. 'Why are we here? Why not a hospital?'

“This place is safer, quieter.” He paused. “You always hated hospitals.”

Another half-truth, smooth and practiced. She could feel it.

One more word. 'Why?'

Damon didn’t answer right away. He stood, his shadow stretching across the room as the mist outside thickened, pressing against the windows.

“I’ll explain everything when you’re ready,” he said. “For now, rest. The staff will take care of you and you’re not alone.”

He turned to leave, pausing at the door. Without looking back, he added, “We agreed to keep your survival quiet. For now, no one knows you’re alive. Not even my family.”

The door closed, soft but final.

She sat still, the pen trembling in her hand, her mind racing.

She waited until nightfall to move.

The house was silent again, save for the wind rattling the windows. The clock had stopped ticking, its silence louder than its rhythm.

She slipped from the bed, her legs unsteady, and pushed open the heavy double doors. The hallway beyond was dim, lit by flickering sconces. Old oil paintings lined the walls, their faces stern and watchful. Thick rugs swallowed her footsteps.

She found a staircase spiraling into darkness and followed it down, drawn by instinct. At the bottom, she turned left, chasing a sound, faint and fleeting.

Piano music, soft, mournful, like a memory half-forgotten.

She followed it through a long corridor until it stopped, abrupt and jarring, leaving only silence in its wake.

She turned back. Her breath clouded in the air, though the hall wasn’t cold.

Halfway to her room, she passed a door, its wood scarred with scratches around a rusted keyhole. Someone had clawed at it, desperate to get in, or out.

She pressed her hand to the door.

A whisper brushed her mind, not quite words, more a feeling. 'Don’t forget me.'

She yanked her hand back, heart racing, and hurried to her room.

Back at the vanity, she stared into the mirror again. She peeled back the bandage, revealing a pink, curved scar along her throat, like a cruel second smile. She traced it with her fingers.

She didn’t feel like Bliss.

But who was she, if not Bliss?

She opened the vanity drawer. Inside was a small photograph, a wedding picture. She saw herself, or someone like her, with longer hair and a radiant smile, wearing a red dress instead of white. Damon stood beside her, younger, his eyes warmer, softer.

She looked happy then.

She didn’t feel happy now.

She flipped the photo over. A date was scrawled on the back, no names. 'Ivana – February 14.'

Ivana.

Her breath caught. That wasn’t her name. Or was it?

She set the photo down and crawled back into bed. The house groaned around her, the ocean roaring in the distance, restless and dark.

One thing was clear: someone was deceiving her, perhaps everyone. Until her voice came back, she’d do the unexpected: she’d stay silent and listen.