Forced bride of mafia king
The dress is perfect.
Trisha finds one too. We pay, thank the associate, and step back into the sun.
“That was fun,” Trisha says, swinging the garment bag.
And I hate to admit it, but she’s right. I did have fun. For an hour, I wasn’t a captive. I was just a bride.
“So, where to next?” I ask, grinning for real.
“O, now you—”
Trisha doesn’t finish. She crumples.
“Trish?” I drop to my knees. My hands find her side, wet and hot. Blood.