The Triplets’ Lovely Bride

Chapter 1: ……….. The text came at 9:47 PM. Marcus: I'm sorry, Elena. I just don't love you anymore. I read it three times. Then I laughed. Then I ordered another vodka. The bar was called The Rusty Nail—sticky floors, cheap neon, a jukebox that only played sad songs. I'd picked it because it was close to my apartment. Correction: our apartment. The one with both our names on the lease. The one he'd promised we'd fill with furniture we picked together. He'd moved out three hours ago. Took his Xbox, his protein powder, and the framed photo of us at Niagara Falls. Left the couch. Left the dishes. Left me. Marcus: Please don't call. I typed back: Don't worry. I'm too busy celebrating. He didn't reply. I ordered shot number four. "You're gonna regret that tomorrow," said the bartender—a woman in her fifties with gray-streaked hair and kind eyes. Her name tag said Deb. "Tomorrow can go to hell," I said. Deb snorted. "First heartbreak?" "Third. But who's counting?" "Third time's the charm." She slid me a glass of water. "Drink. You'll thank me later." I pushed the water aside. "Vodka. Please." Deb sighed but poured. I stared at my phone. Marcus's contact photo—him at the beach, smiling, sun-kissed and perfect—glared back at me. I wanted to delete it. I wanted to throw my phone into traffic. I wanted to text him: You proposed to me last month. You said you wanted to grow old with me. What changed? But I didn't. Because I already knew what changed. Her name was Jessica. She worked at his gym. She had blonde hair and a laugh that sounded like wind chimes. I'd seen them together two weeks ago—his hand on her lower back, her head on his shoulder—and I'd convinced myself it was nothing. It wasn't nothing. I drank. The vodka burned going down. Good. I wanted it to burn. I wanted to feel something other than this hollow ache in my chest, this nothing where my heart used to be. I checked my phone again. Maya: Elena. Where are you? Maya: I'm serious. You disappeared after work. Maya: If you're at that bar on 9th again I'm coming to get you. I typed: Don't. I'm fine. Maya: You're not fine. You just got dumped. Let me come. I need to be alone, I typed. You need to not be alone, she shot back. I didn't reply. The bar was half-empty. A couple in the corner, whispering. A man at the end of the counter, nursing a beer. A group of college kids playing darts. And then—him. He was sitting in the darkest corner of the bar, the booth by the window where the streetlight barely reached. His suit jacket was off, folded neatly on the seat beside him. His white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms that looked like they'd been carved from stone. He was watching me. I noticed him because he wasn't looking at his phone. He wasn't drinking. He wasn't talking to anyone. He was just... watching. Storm eyes. Gray and blue and silver all at once. Churning. Intense. Like he could see through my skin, through my ribs, through every wall I'd ever built. I looked away. My heart was pounding. Stop it, I told myself. You just got dumped. You're not going to rebound with some random guy in a bar. I stared at my drink. I felt his gaze. Still there. Still watching. "Who's the guy in the corner?" I asked Deb. She glanced over. "No idea. Never seen him before. He's been here for two hours. Hasn't ordered a drink. Just sits there." "Creepy." "Maybe. Or maybe he's waiting for someone." I snorted. "Yeah. Me. Obviously." Deb raised an eyebrow. "You sure you're not hoping he is?" I opened my mouth. Closed it. The truth was, I didn't know. I wanted to be angry. I wanted to be furious at Marcus, at Jessica, at the universe for making me a statistic. But underneath the anger was something else—something small and desperate and lonely. I didn't want to be alone tonight. And the man in the corner—the one with storm eyes and hands that looked like they could hold the world—he was very much not alone. Stop it. I grabbed my vodka. Drank. Stared at the bar. Stared at my phone. Stared at anything but him. Two minutes passed. Then five. Then I felt it—a shift in the air. A change in pressure. Like the whole room was holding its breath. I looked up. He was standing. Oh no. He walked toward me—slow, deliberate, each step like he was crossing a battlefield. The couple in the corner stopped whispering. The dart players paused mid-throw. Even Deb froze, glass in hand. He stopped two feet from my stool. "I'm sorry," he said. His voice was low, rough—like gravel wrapped in silk. "I don't mean to stare." "Then why are you doing it?" He tilted his head. "Because you walked in here like you were bleeding." "What?" "Not blood. Something else. Grief. The specific scent of someone who's been hollowed out and left to die." I stared at him. "Are you a poet?" I asked. "Or just insane?" "Neither." His eyes flickered—actually flickered, gray to silver to gray—and my breath caught. "I'm a professor. Ancient genetics. I study things that shouldn't exist anymore." "That's a weird thing to say in a bar." "I'm a weird person." I laughed. It was the first real laugh I'd had all night. "Okay, Professor. What do you want?" He reached into his pocket. Pulled out a business card. Slid it across the bar toward me. ALARIC WOLFE Professor of Ancient Genetics University of Ashford "Alaric," he said. "And I want to buy you a drink." I looked at the card. Then at him. "I already have a drink." "Then let me buy you water." "Why?" "Because you've had four vodkas and you're still crying." I touched my cheek. Wet. I hadn't even noticed. "I'm not crying," I lied. "You are." He sat on the stool next to me, uninvited, and signaled Deb. "Water. Please. And a black coffee for me." Deb looked at me. I nodded. She poured. "I don't need a babysitter," I said. "You're right. You need someone to tell you that your ex was blind." I frowned. "Blind?" "You said you were crying over a boy." He took the coffee Deb handed him. "Anyone who looks at you and sees nothing worth keeping is blind. Or stupid. Or both." I stared at him. He took a sip of coffee. "You don't even know me," I said. "I know enough." "Enough for what?" "Enough to know you deserve better than a bar at 10 PM and cheap vodka." I felt something c***k in my chest—something small, something I'd been holding together with sheer willpower. "Why do you care?" I whispered. He was quiet for a moment. Then: "Because I've been where you are. Not recently. But I remember what it feels like—to be discarded like you were nothing." "And?" "And someone helped me. A long time ago. I'm just... returning the favor." I didn't believe him. Not entirely. Rich, gorgeous, mysterious stranger who just happens to be in the same bar? It was too convenient. Too perfect. But I was tired. And sad. And so, so lonely. "Okay," I said. "One water. Then I'm going home." "Deal." I drank the water. He drank his coffee. We sat in silence—not uncomfortable, not awkward—just... quiet. The bar hummed around us. The jukebox played a song about lost love. The neon flickered. "How do you know I'm not a serial killer?" I asked. "I don't." "That's reassuring." "I'm not one, if that helps." "All serial killers say that." He laughed—a real laugh, low and warm—and I felt something inside me shift. Something I hadn't felt in weeks. Something that felt almost like hope. "I should go," I said, standing. "Thank you for the water. And the... whatever this was." "Therapy?" He raised an eyebrow. "You're welcome." I grabbed my bag. "Goodnight, Professor." "Goodnight, Elena." I froze. "How do you know my name?" He smiled—slow, dangerous, devastating. "I read your lease. The one with your ex's name on it. It's public record." "You looked up my lease?" "I looked up the man who hurt you." "Why?" He stood. He was taller than I'd realized—over six feet, broad shoulders, a frame that looked like it had been built for war. "Because," he said, stepping closer, "I don't like people who break things they promised to keep." I should have run. I should have called the police. I should have done anything but what I did. Instead, I kissed him. --- I didn't plan it. I didn't think. One second I was standing there, bag on my shoulder, heart in my throat—and the next my hands were in his hair and his mouth was on mine. He tasted like coffee and something darker. Something smoky. Something that made my whole body light up like a live wire. He kissed me back—hard, desperate, hungry—and his hands gripped my hips like he was afraid I'd disappear. "Mine," he growled against my lips. The sound went straight to my core. I didn't pull away. I wanted more. He lifted me like I weighed nothing—nothing—and carried me to the back of the bar, through a door marked PRIVATE, down a hallway, through another door— And then we were outside. Cold air. Empty street. A black car waiting. "Tell me to stop," he whispered against my throat. "Tell me to stop and I will." I didn't tell him to stop. --- I woke up in a bed that wasn't mine. Silk sheets. Black. Cool against my skin. I was wearing a man's shirt. White. Too big. There was a mark on my neck. A bite. And a note on the pillow: You were mine before you knew it. — A My hands shook. I looked around. Empty room. Expensive. No sign of him. I found my clothes folded on a chair. Clean. Pressed. I got dressed. I left. The hallway was long, lined with doors. No elevator. I found the stairs and didn't stop until I was outside, on the street, in the cold morning air. My phone buzzed. Unknown Number: Good morning, Elena. Sleep well? I stared at the screen. Unknown Number: You can ignore me. But you can't ignore the mark. It'll start calling you soon. Unknown Number: And when it does— Unknown Number: —I'll be waiting. I dropped my phone. By the time I picked it up, the messages had deleted themselves. ………. Chapter 1 Ends.