Blood and Vengeance

Mallory’s POV I always thought heartbreak would feel like fire. It didn’t. It felt like ice—slow, creeping, merciless. Like someone reached into my chest and froze my heart in their palm, squeezing until I couldn’t breathe. The world around me blurred as I stood in front of the altar, wearing the wedding dress I once believed I’d grow old in. My fingers trembled around the bouquet , white lilies and baby’s breath. Purity. Innocence. How ironic. The priest cleared his throat, his voice awkward, hesitant. “Due to… unforeseen circumstances… the bride will be..” Not me. Not Mallory Adams. Not the girl who had loved him since she was fifteen. The chapel doors opened. And in she walked. My sister. Hand in hand with my fiancé. My groom — no, her groom now — didn’t even look ashamed. He looked happy. Relieved. Like this had always been the plan. A murmur rippled through the pews, but no one stopped it. Not my father. Not my mother. Not a single person stood for me. Because I was replaceable. The unwanted daughter. The quiet one. The one who was good enough to love in private, but never good enough to stand beside in public. My sister flashed me a smile —sweet, apologetic, poisonous. “It’s for the best, Mallory,” she whispered as she passed me. “Don’t make a scene.” I didn’t. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. Couldn’t speak. The priest, the guests ,my family they simply adjusted, as though nothing was wrong. As though I had never been here at all. No one questioned it. No one gasped “This is wrong.” No one even said my name. They replaced me like switching out flowers in a vase. And that was the moment… Mallory Adams died. I did not scream. I did not beg. I did not ask why. Because at that moment, I finally understood. It was never a mistake. It was never sudden. It was planned. They had always intended for her to be the bride and me to be the placeholder. My parents didn’t even look at me as she walked past in my dress style — modified to fit her frame better. The pearls in her hair glistened beneath the chandeliers like a crown stolen from my head. The guests smiled politely, adjusting themselves to this new arrangement as if this was perfectly normal. Some even clapped softly, as though celebrating a twist in a romantic movie. I stood frozen, staring at him. The man I had trusted. The man I once believed loved me. He didn’t look guilty. His eyes flickered with the kind of softness he used to reserve only for me. Except now… he was looking at her. My sister. Fate didn’t betray me. People did. And in that moment, I made a decision. If I screamed, I’d be dramatic. If I cried, I’d be pathetic. If I begged, I’d be pitiful. So I did something far more terrifying. I smiled. A small, controlled, hollow smile the kind that didn’t reach my eyes. Then I turned. No one stopped me. My heels clicked softly against the marble floor — a lonely sound swallowed by the symphony orchestra beginning to play their wedding march. For them. Not me. The doors at the end of the aisle seemed miles away. Every step felt like walking through mud, each breath heavy with humiliation. My bouquet slipped from my fingers, hitting the floor without a sound. White petals scattered across the polished stone like tiny corpses. No one picked it up. I reached the exit. The heavy church doors groaned as I pushed them open. And just like that… The music , the vows ,the laughter faded behind me. Outside, the sky was cruelly bright. Birds still sang. The world kept spinning — ignorant of the fact that mine had just ended. I didn’t realize I was crying until I tasted salt. Not sobbing. Not breaking. Just… leaking. Tears slid silently down my face, disappearing into the lace of my wedding dress. I walked down the steps barefoot i had kicked off my heels somewhere along the way without remembering. The stone was cold beneath my feet, but I welcomed the sting. Pain meant I was still alive. A black car waited at the curb — the one meant to take the happy couple to their honeymoon suite later. How ironic. I walked past it. I didn’t know where I was going. All I knew was nowhere near here. I reached the corner of the street before my vision blurred completely. My knees trembled. I caught myself on a lamppost before collapsing like a spineless doll in satin. A woman across the street paused, staring at me with pity. Pity. That was it. Not help. Not kindness. Not even concern. Just pity. I straightened slowly, wiping my tears with the back of my trembling hand. “No more,” I whispered to myself. No more waiting for someone to choose me. No more loving people who saw me as second best. No more begging for scraps of affection from people unworthy of mine. Right there, on a quiet street outside a church that held my corpse instead of my wedding… I killed Mallory Adams. And in the silence that followed a new voice whispered within me. “Rise.”