The Dead Bride Novels & Stories

"If words get out about the bride dying in the Royal castle, it will become a bad omen for the royal family and evil rumors will spread amongst the villagers. No one needs to know about Qetiyah." That day, Luna Queen Qetiyah's body was sent on fire together with the servants and as if that wasn't enough, the Queen dowager ordered for the family of Qetiyah and everyone who knew about the wedding to be put to death. They were all beheaded. A week after the incident, the queen dowager bought in another bride in replacement of Qetiyah, and the death of Luna Queen Qetiyah was forgotten but it didn't end there. Years after, vengeance came back. The secret that was buried for so long resurfaced. Al

My eyes skimmed the words— Wedding Invitation Don Richardson Lagon & — I froze. My heart slammed against my ribs so violently I thought it would break through. My eyes widened, and the room spun. There, printed in perfect glossy ink, was the bride’s picture. Abigail. My Abigail. My dead wife. I stumbled backward, the invitation slipping from my fingers and fluttering to the floor. My breath tore out of me in ragged gasps. “No…” I whispered. “No. No, no, no, this can’t—this isn’t—”

he says. “It doesn't matter. You would have come ten years later, and it would still be this way, Dante. My heart, it’s solely yours.” He smiles and leans in again, and our lips press together, moving as one. Once, I was the bride he bought , a woman trapped in a bargain made out of power and pride, just so we could save our parents. Now, I’m the woman he chose. And this time, it isn’t a transaction, neither is it because of anyone else.

She would not even be surprised, they all acted weirdly, except Grandma, of course. She shook her head, she was watching too many true crimes lately. But her mind kept traveling to the image. She could just imagine how the news of her death would be reported on the TV news. An unwary Miami bride thought she had struck gold when she married the billionaire. Little did she know she know she would end up being chased in the woods at the next full moon for the symbolic bride porridge. And then the presenter, who looked like he might get sick, would go on to say the images were too gory to show.

The hum of the penthouse elevator pierced the afternoon lull, echoing off the marble and glass like a warning bell. Savannah, curled up with a novel she hadn’t turned a page in for over an hour, barely lifted her head. She was too tired to pretend to care—until the soft chime announced the arrival of someone unexpected. “Well, well. If it isn’t the ghost bride,” came a drawling voice laced with honey and venom.

“What can we do?” The scene before us changes until I see the castle in one of our lifetimes. We stand on the edge, staring at the valley under the bridge. This castle was built into a cliff side, with the bridge going over something that looks more like a canyon than a valley to me. Valeria stands beside me, once again her hand in mine as we watch the invaders coming. At least our backs are protected and we can see them coming head on. “This is it, my love,” she whispers. “They’re coming for us. Our midnight is coming.”

Her eyes teared up as she spoke, letting her memories guide the conversation. “We married under the Blood Moon, formally acknowledging our duties to each other and to our pack before the Moon Goddess. She blessed us, finding ourselves with child before long, and she was our whole world. When Lisette was about ten, we got her first formal request for a betrothal. Of course, we said no. We wanted to wait and see if she would find her mate before we chose one for her. That was when we learned about the prophecy.”

One morning, as I descended the stairs for breakfast, I heard madam Maria wailing from the kitchen. Rushing there, I saw her sitting on a stool, crying. Huddled around her were some of the other domestic staff, looking equally distressed. “What’s the matter?” I asked, panicked. “Is your husband okay? Or your child?” “it's not that,” answered Fidelia, the junior cook that had just been hired. “It’s Clara, the minister…” her voice trailed off in her confusion about how to explain the identity of my husband’s mistress. “Clara is dead!” madam Maria wailed. “She is all her mother has! That girl is all the woman has!”

Then, thinking her mom was calling, she headed downstairs. Her feet barely touched the ground floor when the TV screen flickered to life, blaring the 10am news in urgent, pulsing tones. "Tragedy has struck the fashion world. Christian Bridges, renowned model, heir to the Bridges fashion empire, and Vesper magazine's coveted cover star, has been involved in a horrific accident. Reports indicate that the accident was severe, and Christian is currently being treated in the ICU unit..."

“I remember it now. Yes. It was quite the scandal. The groom on that day publicly left the bride at the altar and married her little sister whom he claimed to love. Everyone was shocked. The bride ran out of the hall before anyone could stop her.” I felt sick. “What happened to her?” “She... she had an accident. Car crash. Died instantly. Or so we were told because no one ever saw her corpse." A cold chill settled in my bones. I took a few steps back, trying to breathe. No. No, no, no. That couldn’t be me. With trembling fingers, I unfolded the newspaper and held it out to him. “Is this the bride?” I asked. Lawrence took the paper, his expression casual at first—but the second his eyes lande