BRIDESMAIDS, BRIDE, BADASS

--- Vance Penthouse | Dallas | 2:13 AM, Wedding Night The pain starts in my throat. It’s not sharp. It’s not dramatic. It’s a dull, metallic burn, like I swallowed a coin and it’s rusting from the inside out. I sit up in the bed. White silk. 400-thread count. The dress I wore six hours ago is still crumpled on the floor. _Till death do us part_, Marcus had whispered when he lifted my veil. I laughed. I believed him. Now I can’t breathe. “Marcus?” My voice is a whisper. A rasp. The room spins. The chandelier above us blurs into a halo of gold. “Something’s wrong.” He’s asleep. Or pretending to be. His back is to me, bare shoulders rising and falling with steady, calm breaths. Too calm. Too controlled. I swing my legs over the side of the bed. The marble floor is freezing against my bare feet. I reach for the lamp. My hand misses. I hit the floor instead. The sound is loud in the silent penthouse. Marcus doesn’t move. “Marcus!” I choke on the word. My vision tunnels. Black edges creep in. The door opens. Lila stands there in a silk robe. Blush pink. The same color as her bridesmaid dress six hours ago. The same color as the tea set on our bedside table. Mint green. My tea. The tea Marcus brought me after we came back from the reception. _For nerves, my love. You looked pale._ Lila doesn’t look surprised to see me on the floor. She looks… relieved. “Is it working?” she asks. Her voice is soft. Almost gentle. “The dosage?” Marcus sits up. He doesn’t look at me. He looks at Lila. And he smiles. “It’s working,” he says. The words hit me harder than the poison. I crawl. Two feet. Maybe three. Toward the door. Toward the phone on the nightstand. If I can just call 911. If I can just— Lila steps on my hand. Hard. The heel of her slipper grinds into my fingers. I gasp. “Don’t,” she says. “It’s over, Elena. You lost.” I look up at her. My best friend. The woman I asked to hold my bouquet. The woman I trusted with my darkest secrets. “Why?” I manage. One word. That’s all I have left. Lila crouches down. Her face is close to mine. I can smell her perfume. Vanilla. The same perfume she wore the day she kissed Marcus in the parking garage. I saw it on the security footage three weeks ago. I didn’t confront her. I thought I could fix it. I thought love was enough. “Because he loves me, Elena,” Lila says. “And you were always in the way.” Marcus finally looks at me. His eyes are cold. No love. No guilt. No regret. Just business. “The insurance payout is forty million,” he says, like he’s reviewing a quarterly report. “Robbery gone wrong. Tragic. Bride killed on wedding night. The media will eat it up.” I stare at him. At the man I chose. At the man I built a life with. “You were never going to love me,” I whisper. “No,” Marcus agrees. “But you were convenient. Your family’s money. Your name. Your trust.” Lila kneels beside me. She brushes my hair back from my face. Like she cares. Like she’s comforting me. “Don’t be mad,” she says. “We’ll be happy. We’ll go to Monaco. We’ll start over. Without you.” I want to scream. I want to claw her face. I want to tell her that I know about the offshore account. That I know about the forged signatures. That I know everything. But I can’t speak. The burn in my throat is now a fire in my chest. My heart is slowing. My vision is fading. The last thing I see is Marcus standing over me. Holding Lila’s hand. The last thing I hear is Lila saying, “Make it look like a robbery. Mess up the room.” The last thing I feel is the cold of the marble against my cheek. And then… nothing. *[BLACK]* --- Vance Penthouse | Dallas | 8:47 PM, Three Months Before The Wedding I wake up to champagne. Cold. Bubbly. Sliding down my throat. I choke. I sit up so fast the chair scrapes against the marble. The chandelier is above me. Gold. Bright. Intact. The room is full of people. Music. Laughter. Flowers. My wedding dress isn’t on the floor. It’s not even ordered yet. I’m wearing a blush-pink silk gown. My engagement dress. The one I wore to this party. Three months before the wedding. Three months before I died. “Elena?” Mom’s voice. Panicked. “Darling, are you alright? You fainted.” I look at my hand. The diamond ring is on my finger. Five carats. Marcus’s ring. I look at the crowd. At my father. At my mother. At the fifty guests smiling at me like I’m the luckiest woman in Dallas. I look at Marcus. He’s kneeling beside me, concern etched on his perfect face. “Elena, breathe. You’re okay. It’s just the stress.” I look at Lila. She’s holding my bouquet, smiling, eyes shining with so happy for you. Blush pink. Mint green tea set on the bar behind her. I remember the taste of rust in my throat. I remember Lila’s heel on my hand. I remember Marcus’s cold eyes. I’m back. I’m alive. Three months before it all happened. “Elena?” Marcus says again, touching my cheek. “Talk to me.” I look at him. Really look. The man I loved. The man who killed me. And I smile. It’s not real. It doesn’t reach my eyes. But it’s perfect for the cameras. “I’m fine,” I say. My voice is steady. Controlled. Not the trembling voice of the girl who died on this floor. “Just overwhelmed. It’s a lot.” He relaxes. He kisses my forehead. The cameras flash. Click. Another moment captured. Another lie preserved. I stand up. On my own. No help. I’m not the fragile bride anymore. I take the champagne flute from the waiter’s tray as he passes. I don’t drink it. I hold it. Like a weapon. Lila appears at my side. “You scared me,” she says softly. “I thought—” “You thought what?” I ask. My voice is light. Sweet. Deadly. “That I’d die?” Her face goes pale for half a second. Then she laughs. Nervous. “Don’t say that. It’s bad luck.” “Bad luck,” I repeat. I look past her. Across the room. And I see him. Adrian Blackwood. Standing alone by the balcony. Black suit. No tie. Glass of water in hand. Watching the room like it’s a crime scene. In my past life, I never spoke to him until it was too late. Until he was standing over my body, signing a statement that would never see a courtroom. This time, I walk toward him. Marcus reaches for my hand. “Elena, the photographer—” “I’ll be right back,” I say. I don’t wait for his response. I don’t ask permission. That’s the first difference. I cross the room. The crowd parts for me. The heiress. The bride. The woman who’s about to die. Adrian sees me coming. He doesn’t smile. He just watches. “You’re not like the other guests,” he says when I stop in front of him. “Because I’m not drinking?” I ask. I set the champagne flute down on the railing. Untouched. “Because you’re not smiling with your eyes,” he says. The same line. The same man. The same moment. But this time, I’m ready for it. “And you are?” I ask. “Adrian Blackwood. Forensic accountant.” He offers his hand. This time, I take it. My grip is firm. Steady. “Marcus hired me to audit the Vance Foundation.” “I know,” I say. His eyebrow raises. “Most people don’t.” “Most people don’t pay attention.” I hold his gaze. “But I do now.” Something shifts in his eyes. Surprise. Interest. Something I can’t name. “Elena.” Marcus’s voice again. Behind me. Close. “The photographer’s waiting.” I don’t turn around. I don’t let go of Adrian’s hand. Not yet. “One minute,” I say. My voice is clear. Firm. Final. Marcus hesitates. He doesn’t like it when I don’t obey immediately. In the past life, I would have rushed back. I would have smiled and apologized. This time, I don’t. Adrian’s thumb brushes my palm once. Brief. Barely there. “Rich people lie,” he says quietly, only for me. “Numbers don’t.” I nod. Once. I finally turn to Marcus. I smile at him. The perfect fiancée. The perfect bride. But behind that smile… I’m already building my case. Back inside, Lila is waiting with the cake knife. Her hand trembles slightly. On the blade, there’s a tiny green stain. Mint green. The same color as the tea set. The same color as the poison. This time, I don’t touch the cake. This time, I watch her. And I remember.