The Whore Bride

BETTY.

I stand frozen as the casket is being lowered into the ground, the dull thud of earth hitting wood echoing through the cold air.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel right now. Because it’s all there, twisting and burning inside me: grief, regret, heartbreak, and mostly anger.

He couldn’t even spare a few minutes to be here. To help me bury my mother.

A gentle squeeze pulls me back to the present, and I glance down only to see her—my heart, my only reason to live, my little Grace.

Her small fingers wrap around mine, her green eyes so much like mine staring up, full of worry I wish she’d never have to carry.

“Mommy, are you okay? Is Daddy coming?” she asks, her tiny voice soft and innocent.

My throat tightens, and for a moment I can’t breathe, so I take a shaky step back from the grave, my vision blurring.

“No, baby,” I mutter, forcing a small smile. “Not today.”

I then lean down and press a kiss to her forehead, her little arms wrapping around my waist, grounding me.

Around us, the few people who knew my mother step forward one by one, tossing handfuls of soil into the grave until the casket disappears beneath it.

The sound of dirt hitting wood echoes in my chest, and each thud is a reminder of everything I’ve lost.

I hold Grace close, her head against my chest, and I pretend to be strong, because if I let go now, she’ll see me fall apart.

I hear a familiar voice coming from behind me, and when I turn, it’s my best friend Lucy, the only connection I have to my old life.

She wraps her arms around my shoulders, her warmth almost breaking me. “Babe, I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?” she asks.

I sigh, forcing a faint smile. “Well… you can rescue me from going back to that house.”

Lucy shakes her head, her lips twisting into a sad smile before she glances down at Grace. “He didn’t come? What’s his reason this time?”

A small, humorless chuckle slips out. “Same as always,” I whisper, making sure Grace doesn’t hear. “Because he hates me.”

Lucy frowns, an angry scoff escaping her. “Come stay with me tonight. You don’t have to go back there today. I can drive you back tomorrow.”

For a moment, I consider it, and I almost say yes. But then I shake my head, holding onto Grace a little tighter. “No need. I’ll be fine. Promise.”

She studies my face, uncertain, before tilting her head. “I still blame myself, you know. I feel like it’s my fault you ended up in that hellhole.”

“Never,” I answer quickly, brushing Grace’s curls away from her face. “Look at her. How else would I have ended up with an angel for a daughter?”

Grace smiles up at me, and I can’t help but smile back. But when I glance up at Lucy, she is giving me that look I hate—the one filled with pity.

“I’m okay,” I tell her quietly. “I promise. I’ll call you once I’m back at the manor.”

She nods reluctantly, giving my hand one last squeeze before leaving the cemetery.

One by one, the rest of the guests offer their condolences and drift away until it’s just Grace and me by the grave.

I stare at the fresh mound of earth for a long time, my chest tightening. “Why did you have to relapse, Mom?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

And before I ask a follow-up, I hear a throat clear behind me. “Mrs Blackwell, it’s time to go back.”

I turn and find the driver patiently waiting, standing at a respectful distance. I sigh, nod, and look down at Grace. “Okay, let’s go.”

We walk toward the car, and the driver opens the door, and I slide inside with Grace beside me.

“Don’t worry, Mommy,” she says softly, settling on her seat, her green eyes bright even through the sadness. “I’ll make you hot chocolate when we get home.”

I lean over and kiss her head. “Thanks, my darling.”

The car hums quietly, and we leave the cemetery behind.

Outside, the world blurs, and the city fades into a long stretch of open road, the sky giving way to guarded estates, each one hidden behind tall iron gates.

I close my eyes and remember the first time I drove up this road six years ago. I remember thinking it was the beginning of my happy ending. That love and soft life had finally found me. I scoff just thinking about it.

My eyes open, and I lean back against the seat, telling myself I can’t think about that now, especially not after saying goodbye to the only blood-related relative I had.

But with every mile closer to the estate, the ache in my chest grows sharper, deeper, and heavier.

Grace leans against me, half-asleep, her soft breath warming my arm as my eyes drift to the window just as the car slows.

The towering black gates of the Blackwell estate come into view, two enormous stone lions guarding the entrance.

The Blackwell family isn’t just wealthy. They are old money. They have the kind of wealth that doesn’t just buy power, but builds empires.

They own nearly half of this city. Businesses, banks, hospitals, schools, apartments. If you live here, chances are, you owe something to a Blackwell.

Being around them is considered a privilege. Marrying into them? That’s something people would sell their souls for.

The gates open on their own, silent and smooth, as if welcoming me back to captivity, and we roll through the long driveway lined with perfectly trimmed hedges and ancient oak trees.

The manor comes into view, vast and pale, with towering columns and gleaming windows that stretch toward the sky.

Grace stirs and sits up as the car stops in front of the house, and before the driver can open her door, she pushes it herself, hops out, her small shoes tapping against the steps as she runs ahead.

I step out after her, taking my sweet time, dread curling low in my stomach at what awaits me inside.

The massive oak doors swing open before I reach them, and Anders, the butler, stands tall at the threshold, his posture perfect, his face unreadable.

“Welcome back, ma’am,” he greets with a slight bow.

The moment I step into the grand foyer, I feel it—the tension. It’s palpable.

Two maids stand frozen near the staircase, their faces pale and uneasy, their eyes darting toward the upper landing.

I follow their gaze up the staircase, and my eyes land on her. Eleanor Blackwell. My mother-in-law.

She is dressed perfectly as always, her pearls gleaming beneath the chandelier, her expression carved from ice.

“Finally,” she spits, her tone sharp enough to cut glass, her gaze sweeping over me like I’m something stuck in her shoe.

“The suspect we’ve been waiting for.”