The Forced Bride

Shattered Night

I pushed the door open.

The sight hit me like a punch.

Arthur had Elena bent over the edge of the bed, her pink dress bunched around her waist. He stood behind her, moving with slow, deliberate thrusts. His hands gripped her hips tightly. The sharp sound of skin meeting skin filled the room. Elena moaned softly, pushing back against him, her face flushed with pleasure.

I couldn’t breathe.

Arthur leaned over her, one hand sliding up to grip her hair. He pulled her head back gently as he drove deeper. “Like that?” he murmured against her ear.

Elena’s eyes fluttered open. She saw me first. For a split second, surprise flashed across her face. Then her lips curved into that familiar smirk. She didn’t stop. If anything, she arched her back more, moaning louder while keeping her eyes locked on mine.

Arthur hadn’t noticed me yet. He kept thrusting steadily, completely focused on her, his breathing rough. Elena’s moans grew sharper as she pushed back against him, still staring at me with that mocking smile.

I stood frozen in the doorway in my full wedding gown, the lace train pooled around my feet. The room smelled of sweat, perfume, and roses that were meant for me. My stomach churned. Heat rushed to my face, then drained away, leaving me cold.

“Arthur…” My voice came out small and cracked.

Elena’s moans grew sharper, making sure it got louder than the name I called. Each moan slicing deeper into me. She watched me the whole time, daring me to stay.

Tears burned my eyes. “Stop… please.”

Neither of them answered. The bed kept creaking. Arthur’s back muscles flexed under his half-open tuxedo shirt as he gripped Elena tighter. The sounds, the smells, the sight of them together, it all crashed over me at once.

I backed away, my legs shaking. The door slipped from my fingers and clicked shut behind me. Then I ran.

I burst into the nearest guest room, locked the door, and sank to the floor. The sobs came hard and fast, tearing through my chest until my throat burned. I pressed my forehead against my knees, the beautiful white dress now crumpled and meaningless around me.

This was my wedding night.

And my husband was in bed with my sister.

I don’t know how long I stayed there. The muffled sounds from down the hall eventually faded, but the images stayed burned in my mind. I couldn’t remain in this house. Not one more night.

Wiping my face, I stood up on shaky legs. I kicked off my heels and moved to the window. The mansion was quiet now. Most guests had left. If I was going to run, it had to be now.

But where would I run to, who would I call for help. If I want to survive out there on my own I needed money.

The room was looking luxurious so I decided to search it, even if it was something I could sell. My hands shook as I rifled through drawers. Wooden ones creaking softly in protest. Nothing useful… just spare linens, an old bible, forgotten toiletries. Panic edged in. The closet yielded nothing but dust and empty hangers. Then, under the bed, half-pushed against the wall, I spotted a sleek black briefcase.

My heart leaped.

I dragged it out. The latches clicked open with surprising ease. Inside, stacks of crisp bills. Hundreds, mostly, neatly bundled. Thousands. Maybe tens of thousands. My breath caught.

Whose was it? Did it matter? Desperation overrode everything else. Without thinking twice, I stuffed as much as I could into the hidden pockets of my gown and a small bag. The weight felt strange, terrifying but freeing.

I cracked the door open. The hallway was empty. I crept along the shadows, holding my dress up, heart pounding with every step. The side garden exit was close. From there, the back gate. Then freedom.

My hand reached for the door handle.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

The voice stopped me cold. Deep. Calm. Dangerous.

I turned slowly.

Arthur stood at the end of the hallway. His shirt was still unbuttoned, hair messy, skin glistening with sweat. He looked at me with those dark eyes, no guilt, no surprise. Just cold control.

He started walking toward me, each step measured.

I gripped the handle tighter, but my legs wouldn’t move.

“Don’t make me repeat myself, Sophie.”