THE BILLIONAIRE KEEPS SENDING ME DEAD BRIDES

The knocking started at exactly midnight. Three sharp knocks. Then silence. Ivy Laurent froze with her sketch pencil hovering above unfinished lace patterns. Knock. Knock. Knock. The sound came again. Slow. Deliberate. Like whoever stood outside her apartment door wasn't in a hurry. A chill crawled down her spine. She glanced toward the digital clock beside her laptop. 12:03 A.M. Her landlord never came upstairs this late. Neither did neighbors. Especially not during a thunderstorm. Rain hammered against the windows while lightning flashed across the dark room. The tiny apartment trembled under the storm. Ivy swallowed hard. "Probably a delivery mistake." The words sounded weak even to her own ears. She stood from her desk and walked toward the door. The knocking stopped. The silence felt worse. Her hand hovered over the handle. Then she looked through the peephole. Nothing. No one. The hallway was empty. "See? You're imagining things." She exhaled. But something felt wrong. Very wrong. Slowly, she unlocked the door. The hallway lights flickered. Empty. No footsteps. No elevator sounds. No retreating figure. Just an old black box sitting directly in front of her door. Ivy stared. Her stomach tightened. The box looked expensive. Matte black. Wrapped with a dark red ribbon. No sender's name. No delivery label. Nothing. A bolt of lightning illuminated the hallway. For one brief second, she thought she saw something dark smeared across the ribbon. Something that looked suspiciously like dried blood. Her pulse quickened. She should call the police. She knew she should. Instead, curiosity won. It always did. Carefully, she carried the box inside and locked the door behind her. Thunder exploded outside. The ribbon slipped from her trembling fingers. A strange metallic smell filled the room. Her heartbeat accelerated. "Nope." She pushed the box away. "Absolutely not." Yet she couldn't stop staring. Five minutes later, she opened it. The moment the lid lifted, her breath vanished. Inside lay a wedding veil. White lace. Beautiful. Expensive. And soaked with dark red stains. Blood. The veil was covered in blood. Ivy stumbled backward. "Oh my God..." Beneath the veil sat a diamond ring. Huge. Flawless. Worth more than everything she owned combined. And under the ring was a folded photograph. Her hands shook as she picked it up. The picture showed a young woman wearing the same veil. Smiling. Beautiful. Dead. A crimson stain spread across the front of her wedding dress. Ivy's blood turned cold. There was writing on the back. One sentence. Five words. "You look exactly like her." The photograph slipped from her fingers. The room spun. "What the hell..." Her phone buzzed. She nearly screamed. Unknown Number. Her hands trembled as she answered. "Hello?" Silence. Then breathing. Slow. Heavy. Someone was listening. "Who is this?" Nothing. "Stop calling me." The line disconnected. Ivy immediately locked every window and door. Then she searched the woman's image online. Within seconds, news articles appeared. Her face drained of color. The woman in the photograph wasn't a random victim. She was Amelia Hart. The former fiancée of billionaire Roman Dacre. Dead six months ago. The headline beneath her picture made Ivy's stomach twist. BILLIONAIRE'S THIRD FIANCÉE FOUND DEAD DAYS BEFORE WEDDING. Three fiancées. Three deaths. One billionaire. Roman Dacre. The man newspapers called cursed. Or worse. The Bride Collector. Ivy stared at the screen. A chill spread through her body. The woman in the article looked disturbingly familiar. Same eyes. Same jawline. Same dark hair. She looked... Like Ivy. Almost exactly. A knock suddenly echoed from her apartment door. Ivy jumped. The blood drained from her face. Another knock. Her heart thundered. Who could possibly— Her phone rang again. Unknown Number. The knocking stopped. Slowly, Ivy answered. This time a man's voice spoke. Deep. Cold. Terrifyingly calm. "Open the door." Every muscle in her body froze. "What?" "Open the door, Miss Laurent." Fear exploded through her. How did he know her name? She backed away. "Who are you?" Silence. Then: "You have something that belongs to me." The line disconnected. Ivy immediately called the police. But by the time officers arrived, nobody was outside. No fingerprints. No evidence. Nothing. Just a bloodstained veil. And a dead bride's photograph. The officers suggested it was a prank. A sick joke. But Ivy knew better. Because as they left, she noticed something hidden inside the box. A small silver card. Embossed with a name. Roman Dacre. The next morning felt unreal. Ivy hadn't slept. Every shadow looked suspicious. Every sound made her jump. Yet she still had work. Bills didn't disappear because someone sent blood-covered wedding accessories. Her bridal boutique opened at nine. Business was terrible as usual. By noon, only two customers had entered. Neither bought anything. Her assistant, Maya, noticed her distraction. "You look awful." "Thank you." "You know that's not a compliment." Ivy rubbed her temples. "I barely slept." Maya's eyes narrowed. "What happened?" Ivy hesitated. Then showed her the photograph. Five minutes later, Maya looked ready to quit life entirely. "Burn it." "What?" "Burn everything." "Maya—" "I'm serious." Maya shoved the photo back. "That's Roman Dacre." "I know." "No. You don't understand." She lowered her voice. "People disappear around that family." Ivy rolled her eyes. "You're being dramatic." "I'm being alive." The bell above the boutique door suddenly chimed. Both women turned. The room went silent. Three men entered. All wearing black suits. Security. Not customers. Security. They moved aside. And someone stepped through the doorway. Every conversation inside the boutique died instantly. Roman Dacre. Even Ivy recognized him immediately. Tall. Dark. Impossibly handsome. The kind of handsome that felt dangerous. Expensive black suit. Cold gray eyes. The entire room seemed to belong to him. Roman surveyed the boutique. Then his gaze landed on Ivy. The air disappeared from her lungs. He walked toward her. Every step measured. Controlled. Predatory. Fear twisted inside her stomach. He stopped directly in front of her. Close enough to touch. Close enough to notice the scar near his jaw. Close enough to realize those newspaper photos hadn't done him justice. He was terrifying. "Miss Laurent." His voice was calm. Emotionless. Like a judge delivering a sentence. Ivy forced herself to speak. "Mr. Dacre." Silence stretched. Roman studied her face. Not casually. Intensely. As if comparing her to something. Or someone. His expression darkened. A strange emotion flickered through his eyes. Gone before she could identify it. Then he reached inside his jacket. Ivy stiffened. He placed a photograph on the counter. It was another bride. Another dead woman. Another face. Another woman who looked like Ivy. Fear exploded inside her chest. Roman's gaze never left hers. "You're going to design my wedding dress." The boutique went completely silent. Maya nearly choked. "What?" Roman remained calm. "You're designing my wedding dress." Ivy laughed nervously. "No." "No?" "No." Roman tilted his head slightly. Almost curious. Nobody said no to men like him. Apparently. "I don't think you understand." "I understand perfectly." She pushed the photograph back. "I'm not interested." Roman stared at her. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. Then, unexpectedly... He smiled. Not warmly. Not kindly. The smile made him look infinitely more dangerous. "You received my package." It wasn't a question. Ivy's heart stopped. So it was him. He had sent it. The veil. The ring. The photograph. Everything. Anger replaced fear. "You sent that?" "Yes." "Are you insane?" Several security guards shifted uneasily. Roman simply looked amused. "No." "You sent me a dead woman's photograph!" "Three dead women." The correction was calm. Almost casual. A shiver ran through Ivy. Roman leaned slightly closer. His voice lowered. Only she could hear. "They all looked like you." Her breath caught. "You knew them?" "No." "Then why me?" For the first time, something dark appeared in Roman's eyes. Something haunted. Something broken. "I've been asking myself that same question." Before Ivy could respond, he placed a black envelope on the counter. Then turned away. "What is this?" "My offer." "I'm not interested." Roman paused at the door. The entire boutique watched him. Then he spoke without turning around. "You will be." And left. The bell chimed. Silence followed. Maya stared at the envelope. "Tell me that's not what I think it is." Ivy opened it. Inside was a contract. And a check. Five million dollars. Her legs nearly gave out. Five million. Enough to save the boutique. Enough to clear her debts. Enough to completely change her life. At the bottom of the contract was a single handwritten sentence. If you want answers, come to Dacre Estate. Ivy stared at the words. A cold feeling settled inside her chest. Because beneath the sentence was another photograph. This one wasn't of a dead bride. It was older. Faded. A little girl. Standing beside a man. A man Ivy recognized immediately. Her father. The father who supposedly committed suicide five years ago. Her world tilted. Why was her father in a photograph connected to Roman Dacre? And why had Roman sent it to her now? As thunder rolled across the sky outside, Ivy slowly looked toward the boutique doors where Roman had disappeared. Her hands trembled. Her heart pounded. And one terrifying question echoed through her mind. What if the dead brides were only the beginning?