CHAPTER2
1019 Words
Lynda was halfway to the table when he appeared.
Not loud. Not flashy. Just there like he’d been waiting for her all night.
“Are you okay?” he asked, quiet and calm, like he already knew she wasn’t.
Lynda blinked. He had an unreadable face, sharp eyes. She almost brushed him off until she caught the earpiece. A small black wire curled behind his ear.
“Oh. Adrian’s assistant,” she said to herself but not aloud. “I’m fine,” she lied. But she said it so well she almost believed it for a second.
He didn’t push, just studied her for a second. Then held out a glass of water.
“If you need a break… take it. Not everyone likes being on display.”
He walked away before she could respond. She stared at his back, confused. Intrigued.
Something about him didn’t fit. He looked like someone trained to disappear. But he was the only one who’d seen her tonight.
The ballroom glowed gold under crystal chandeliers. Champagne sparkled in glasses. Laughter hid secrets in its echo.
Lynda sat beside Adrian, smiling like her life depended on it. He didn’t look at her, not once.
Then came the sting of a hand beneath the table. Long fingers, sharp nails digging into her skin.
“Smile, darling,” Evelyn hissed sweetly, her red lips unmoving. “We wouldn’t want the press to see how ungrateful you are.”
Lynda didn’t react. She lifted her glass and slowly sipped, heat rising under her skin. Not from wine. From fury.
After dessert, the assistant passed her again. Their eyes met no smile, no nod. Just that look. Like he knew too much.
He wasn’t looking at her body. He was reading her soul.
Lynda swallowed hard. She hated that he made her feel seen because the last time someone did, it was her father. And he was dead.
She excused herself; no one noticed. The corridor outside the ballroom was cooler, darker. Her heels clicked quietly across the marble floor.
She didn’t know where she was going. Just away.
Then a voice: “You shouldn’t be out here by yourself.”
She turned fast. There he was again.
The assistant..
“Are you following me now?” she asked, trying to sound amused. “Your husband’s enemies aren’t all wearing tuxedos.”
“Cryptic and charming. What a combo.” He didn’t laugh. Just stepped closer.
“You notice things, Mrs. Ashford. You smile, but you’re alert. You’re watching everyone like they’re suspects.”
She tilted her head. “You’re not wrong.”
He paused. Something flickered in his gaze. Then:
“Be careful who watches you back.”
He left her with that like a riddle or a warning.
As she turned to go back inside, someone brushed past her. A man she didn’t recognize. Older. Grey at the temples. No tie.
He leaned toward her just enough for her to hear him whisper:
“Your father would never have let this happen.”
Before she could react he was gone and swallowed by the crowd.
Lynda stood frozen, her heart crawling up her throat. Who was he? And how did he know?
The night dragged on. More toasts. More lies. Adrian placed a hand on her waist when photographers circled. He smiled like a man who’d just closed a business deal. Not married to a woman.
Lynda played her role. Porcelain bride. Shining trophy. But inside, she was sinking.
After enduring a night of forced smiles, staged photos, and veiled threats, Lynda finally retreated to the master suite alone. Her wedding to Adrian Ashford felt more like a performance than a union, and now that the audience was gone, she was left with silence and herself.
She removed her jewelry piece by piece, wiped away her makeup, and unzipped her wedding gown without help. No bridesmaid. No mother. No husband. The dress fell to the floor like a weight she was relieved to shed.
She put on an oversized robe, unfamiliar and impersonal, then slipped into bed beside Adrian. He was already turned away from her. No goodnight. No warmth. Just cold detachment.
Lying still, she stared at the ceiling, exhausted but restless. Her mind replayed every strange moment of the evening:
The quiet assistant who saw through her, the sharp warning he left behind, the stranger who whispered about her father, and Evelyn’s smile that never reached her eyes.
Her body was still, but her mind was racing.
She began to drift until something pulled her sharply awake.
A sound.
Drip.
She sat up, heart pounding like a drum in her chest. The room was thick with silence, but then..
Drip.
A single drop echoed in the stillness, sharp and clear.
Drip.
It came again, slow and deliberate, from somewhere down the hall.
Her breath caught. She didn’t dare call out. She slid quietly out of bed, every muscle tight with unease. The cold marble floor bit into her bare feet as she moved cautiously. The grand painting of Adrian’s grandfather loomed above, his eyes seeming to follow her every step, dark and unblinking.
Drip.
Each step brought her closer to the source, the sound growing louder, more menacing. The corridor’s shadows stretched like fingers, swallowing the light.
Her pulse slammed against her ribs, breath shallow. Her fingers grazed the smooth wall for balance, but the chill in the air made her skin prickle with dread.
She reached the third guest suite. The door stood slightly ajar, the faintest creak whispering in the silence. She paused, the drop still falling, dripping—
Drip. Drip.
Her eyes darted to the swinging chandelier, its slow sway cutting through the darkness like a pendulum counting down to something worse.
The bathroom door was open. She stepped closer, pulse pounding. And that’s when she saw it
Written across the mirror in thick red streaks:
“He died for what you’re about to find.”
Lynda’s breath hitched.
That wasn’t wine.
And it wasn’t random.
She stepped back, slowly.
The entrance door behind her swung shut with a quiet click…
- Writer
