All Chapters of The Wedding Night Curse: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

Alika's POVHis footsteps still echoed in my head. That smile. The way he said my name—like a whisper torn from the cracked vaults of time. But when I opened my eyes…I was already in the old hall.The floor was faded gray marble, thin cracks spreading like veins on aged skin. The walls were tall, dressed in peeling red wallpaper, lined with long mirrors in tarnished gold frames.I had no idea how I got here. But what terrified me more was this:I was dancing.My feet turned, the hem of the long gown billowing with every step. My arms rose as if pulled by invisible strings. I was breathless… but my body didn’t care. It kept moving—swaying, spinning, leaping, bowing—with no control.“I don’t want to dance,” I thought. But my fingers remained gracefully extended, my steps stayed in rhythm.The old black gown I wore felt heavy against my body. Its velvet soaked up each movement, yet made me feel more entangled in the rhythm—like the fabric itself was alive, and I was merely a puppet caug

Behind the mirror, Alika’s reflection smiled. But it wasn’t her smile.Mrs. Whitmore stood frozen in the west corridor of the manor, her breath catching. She couldn’t see what Alika and Ethan were seeing inside the ballroom—but she felt something. A ripple through the old bones of the house. A murmur in her blood, as if a long-dead voice whispered:> "The girl is too close to the truth."Her shoulders tensed.In her hands, she clutched an old leather-bound journal. The pages were yellowed, delicate, barely held together. She had found it hidden behind a false wall in the northern library, sealed inside a wooden box with wax sigils and the mark of a realm between the living and the dead.The name on the front page made her blood run cold.> Eleanor Vale-Blackwell.Alika’s mother.Mrs. Whitmore sank onto the only intact chair in the dusty archive room. She lit a single candle. The flame flickered—not from wind, but from something else. Something watching.She began to read.---October

Alika’s POVA cold wind crept in through the cracks in the manor walls, carrying whispers I couldn’t translate. Words that meant nothing—yet somehow felt like a name. My name.I could barely stand. My breath came in short bursts. Ethan’s embrace had left behind a trace of warmth, but reality returned faster than I could defend against it.The cloaked figure who had appeared at the altar still burned in my mind. His words… his gaze… like a stamp from the past that was never delivered. He wasn’t just a threat. He knew me. He’d been waiting for me to be “whole” so he could claim me. For what?I didn’t know.Ethan’s footsteps behind me pulled me back into the room. “We have to get out of here,” he said gently. “Before—”“No.”My voice rang out. Too quick. Too firm. Even I was surprised.He looked at me, confused. But I didn’t explain. Not yet. I walked to the side of the room, toward one co

Fog clung low over the hills of Black Hollow as the church bell rang three times—slow and heavy. Only one man heard it: an old priest, hunched over with age and eyes that had seen too much death.Father Merrin lit his oil lantern and pushed open the door of the old church. The hinges screamed like a dying rat. Inside, the pews had rotted, and the main altar lay buried under thick dust and cobwebs that looked like a dead woman’s hair.But tonight, something was different.Tonight, the ground beneath the church pulsed.Merrin felt a faint tremor as he walked down the center aisle. A voice in the back of his head whispered at him to turn back, to stay out of this. But he was too old to be afraid. Too guilty to expect salvation.He descended the corridor to the underground archive—a hidden place known only to the last Watchers of Black Hollow. Moss-covered stone steps led him into the earth's gut. At the end, a rusted iron door bore the mark of three crescent moons and an inverted cross.

Alika’s POVSometimes we call something without meaning to.And sometimes what answers… isn’t what we were looking for.After Ethan said “Then I bleed,” something shifted. Not just in the room, but inside me.Like something deep in my chest—a lock—was turning slowly.It wasn’t pain. It was worse.It was a knowing.He was asleep on the sofa across the room. Or pretending to be. We were both too awake inside to truly rest.I sat on the floor, hand on my stomach.The baby was quiet again.Too quiet.There was an old book under the bed.I didn’t bring it. Neither did he.But there it was—open—its pages yellowed and blackened in the center. The ink bled like it had been written with broken fingers. Jagged. Shaking.I didn’t reach for it.But something inside me—maybe some forgotten voice from another bride, long buried—whispered:"Say the name."I didn’t even realize