Chapter 21: Dress Fitting or Funeral Gown?

When Camela regained consciousness, she was lying on a cold floor. Vincent lay beside her, breathing slowly. Camela rose despite her aching limbs and fear.

Vincent woke up and called out to her. "Camela?"

She knelt beside him. "I am here."

He sat up carefully, leaning against the wall as he whispered, "We... they’re still watching."

They looked up and saw the Bride reflected on every wall, without flames or candles, just reflections.

Camela felt a chill run down her spine.

In front of them stood a tall dress form holding a black gown. Its hem touched the floor. Camela recognized it, even in nightmares, because it reminded her of the funeral dresses she avoided as a child.

She stepped forward. The fabric was so dark that it absorbed light. It had black lace, chunky beads, and a high collar. It looked more like mourning clothes than a wedding dress.

She hurried over to him. "Wake up, Vincent."

He coughed, squinting his eyes. "Don't," he muttered. "You almost…"

Vincent's gaze fell on the dress, reached his hand toward it, and said, "That's your dress."

"It's not a wedding gown," she whispered.

"No," the Bride replied from behind Camela's reflection. "This is a funeral gown. For those who refuse.”

Camela shook her head and replied, "I won't put it on."

She glanced back at the black dress. The room was calm, and she felt a tightness in her chest.

A voice echoed from behind the mirror again. "Isn't that beautiful?"

She turned around quickly, but there was nobody there.

The dress floated toward her on invisible wires. She caught the bottom hem. It felt heavy and stained near the hemline, resembling dried rose petals pressed into the fabric. The sleeves looked like empty arms.

Camela gulped hard. "Whose is this?"

"It's yours," the voice stated.

She looked in the mirror. Her reflection stared back, wearing the dress, but the reflection showed her mother's face.

The reflection was the first to move and it smiled back at her.

Camela stumbled back towards him.

“Vincent…” she called out.

The mother-face reflection spoke. "It suits you."

Camela's voice shook. "What would happen if I never put it on?"

The reflection spoke softly, "It chooses you."

She gazed at Vincent, who slowly opened his eyes, still feeling weak.

"You called my name," he said, whispering. "You saved me."

She knelt beside him, tears falling. "I don't want this. I do not want the contract."

The mother-face in the mirror whispered, "The contract requires blood."

Camela lifted her head. "I will not sign."

The Bride stepped forward, and her reflection merged with Camela's. "You can't escape your choices."

She looked at Vincent. "They told me to say my name. But now…they give me no choice."

He reached for her and squeezed her free hand. “You still have a choice.”

The parchment of vows reappeared, its silver edges burning faintly.

Camela nodded her head. "No pens," she asked again.

The Bride smiled and repeated. "You speak your name…then sign!"

Vincent gasped. "They built this world with words. Don't give them anymore.”

She looked in the mirror behind her. The Bride and her mother's faces shifted back and forth.

Her mother spoke quietly: "This gown was mine too."

She turned to the mirror. "Did you wear it?"

Her mother nodded. “I refused. They forced me into it anyway."

Her heart pounded in her chest. "Then I will not wear it either."

Her mother stayed silent and didn't say anything.

The room instantly became darker. The dress moved silently, spinning and coiling around her like a serpent.

Camela yanked the ring from her fingers. It fell to the ground and vanished into ash.

She struggled and backed away. "Let me go!"

But the dress tightened with each breath, sliding over her arms and shoulders and onto her skin before sealing itself shut.

Vincent watched her helplessly.

Camela exclaimed, "Let me go!"

Tight seams stretched across her stomach and chest. The dress was fastened, and it cinched tightly, making it feel as if she were being buried alive.

She gasped as the high collar pressed against her neck, choking her.

The reflection in the mirror smiled and said. "Beautiful."

Vincent got up slowly and wiped the blood off his lip.

“You should have signed,” he whispered.

Camela glared. “I want to leave.”

Vincent shook his head. “You can’t.”

She yanked on the skirt, ripping at the lace near her waist, but it did not tear. She pulled harder and screamed. The dress got even tighter. The dress felt alive—burning, cold, and heavy.

Vincent approached her. "It doesn't belong to you anymore."

She looked in the mirror; one of the stitches had fallen off, revealing a dangling thread. She yanked it.

The dress ripped but also spread. The black silk transformed into a thousand ribbons, covering the entire room in darkness. She shielded her eyes.

Camela's reflection whispered, "Kiss it; you could be the bride they built."

She spat softly, "No!"

The gown dissolved into black ribbons, falling to the floor.

She stood there, gasping for breath and trembling, finally free for a moment.

With great effort, Vincent managed to stand and said in a faint voice, "You’re still... still alive."

Camela extended her hands to help him stand still.

When the darkness cleared, Camela and Vincent stood alone—no dress or harness, but the ribbons crisscrossed the floor like a spider web.

The mirror behind them cracked. Through the cracks, her reflection transformed into the bride figure—crown, mask, and dead eyes.

Camela breathed in sharply, startled and frightened.

A click sounded and the door behind Vincent clicked open. He looked at her, his expression filled with regret.

"I gave you a choice," he said.

She shook her head. “I made my choice. I refused.”

Behind Vincent, the door swung open. Inside it was a long hallway lined with empty chairs. Each chair had a white rose taped to its seat.

Camela opened her eyes wide. "What's that?"

Vincent gulped hard. "The seating for the faithful."

Behind her, two masked servants came in. One had a silver pen and the other held a piece of parchment.

Her heart pounded in her chest..

"This is your final fit," Vincent remarked quietly. "For your crowning…or your funeral."

Camela looked at the parchment. The headline read **The Last Contract** Below were lines for names, vows, and signatures.

She raised her gaze to Vincent, who reached out his hand toward her.

"Say your name," he whispered.

She took a deep breath and stared at the vacant chairs.

Then—

Someone outside the hallway tapped the glass behind the mirror. Nine taps. Soft. Slow.

A strange silence spreads through the hall.

Vincent and Camela both turned.

The mirrors behind her shattered simultaneously. Glass splintered on the floor. The lighting in the room changed.

The walls melted, revealing a hidden room. In that room, there was a podium with a coffin on it.

A crown—black metal, thorned, and adorned with crimson jewels—floated above it, and above that was a contract on a pedestal.

Camela looked at it, and her name was etched across the top.

Vincent breathed in.

Her mother whispered through the shattered mirrors, "Now they have shown the contract."

She felt a chill. She stepped forward, toward the coffin. Vincent grabbed her hand again and held it for a split second.

"Whatever you choose…" he whispered.

Camela lifted the lid of the coffin. Inside, a person was wrapped in red silk.

Not her.

Not her mother.

But someone else.

She took a quick breath and filled her lungs with air.

The person in the coffin awakened. A painful groan escaped its lips, and it raised a skinny hand with black nails as pale as ash.

Finally—the eyes popped open.

Camela felt her breath caught in her throat.