Only she remembered what happened on her wedding.


The problem was—no one else remembered it being her.

Not the groom, not the photographer, not the trembling flower girl who dropped the peonies when the music swelled. Not even the mother of the bride, who sobbed so hard her mascara carved warpaint down her cheekbones.

Because to everyone in that cathedral, she was the bride.

The dress fit. The smile was rehearsed. The diamond? Stolen, but real.

She’d learned to kiss on cue. Cry on command. She had been expertfully taught to do it all right.

And when they said “you may now kiss the bride,” she tilted her chin and made history.

In the photos, her hand curled perfectly around his chest.

In the papers, she was Lily Calloway, 24, heiress to the Voltaire shipping fortune.

But she was not Lily.

Lily’s body was lying dead in a salt bath in room 717 of the Plaza Hotel, wrapped in silence and pine  scented bath salts sprinkled all over her.

And the girl in white?

She had four names, a few degrees in acting, and exactly 72 hours to find what the Voltaires buried in that house before someone figured out—

the wedding never belonged to her.

She walked gracefully around the venue, greeting all of her guests as they greeted her back with congratulations and conversations about her future plannings. The atmosphere was happy, relaxed and she was successfully keeping up the role. 

She didn’t need a perfect disguise — only the perfect moment to slip inside Lily Calloway’s life and vanish without a trace, which I’d say she did impeccably.

A few surprisingly busy long hours ago everyone was completely under the weight of the preparations and the last minute adjustments of the little details and the guest list, one of Lily’s bridesmaids, Ivy Lancaster, one of her best friends from childhood came looking for her for a last minute try-out and adjustments of the train of her dress to avoid her complaining about how it was too long and exhausting. Ivy peeked into her room, the one they checked in together last night at the Plaza Hotel, room 717, her favourite number, Lily was obsessed with numbers ever since she was little, she was incredibly smart and calculative, only she never ever could have thought about the possibility of what would happen on the best day of her life, or should I say the last one?  As Ivy opened the door she found that the dress was still on the small pink Chesterfield sofa that she was given on her 23rd birthday. She found it rather odd, Lily should have already been wearing her dress. She came up to the bathroom door and called out for her, Lily politely asked her to give her a moment. The girl instantly froze, she was inside the bathroom with the unconscious Lily Calloway in her bathtub. She had to get rid of her and she knew the perfect way, staged suicide. She thought that it would be a rather good way to cover up, she’d go through with the wedding to avoid the public scandal too early on, she could already see the headlines in the newspapers: “Daughter of a New York Socialite Larissa Alba Calloway found after committing suicide a few hours before the wedding”, and she couldnt afford that kind of attention, she was on a mission, a mission she couldn’t risk failing. An important business man had really bad information on her, the kind that could ruin her life, in exchange they asked for only two things, getting rid of the bride, Lily Calloway, and getting access to the fund and secrets of the Voltaire family, the richest and most secretive family in the city. She took a good look at Lily’s cold, emotionless face. They really did look alike, maybe because they were perhaps related. She shrugged away her thoughts and prepared the scene, sprinkled bath salts over Lily and positioning her in a way that would trick the cops into thinking she committed suicide, she really was good at this. She puts on Lily’s robe and slippers and walks out as if nothing happened, she looked in the mirror, she looked exactly like her. Ivy was waiting for her with the dress and asked her to try it on for minor adjustments, she did exactly so as Ivy fixed her dress. “You’re awfully calm for someone about to marry into the most cursed family in Manhattan,” Ivy whispered, tightening the last ribbon on her corset. “I thought you would’ve fainted twice by now.”

  • -    -   


He looked perfect.

Not just rich or groomed — perfect. Still, polished, quiet. Like the kind of man who didn't sweat, didn't blink too often, didn't fidget the way real people do.

Earlier, he’d laughed with the best man. Or at least, they said he did. She hadn’t heard it herself — she was busy adjusting her veil.

His mother had kissed his cheek and called him “her miracle.” No one questioned how pale he looked. Or how dry his lips were. The lighting made everything glow.

And he held her hand at the altar — gently, just enough. She thought she felt pressure. But maybe that was her own fingers doing all the work.

No one would dare ask questions. Not at this wedding.

And as the priest turned the page in the little leather book, she already knew what he would say next.

The priest cleared his throat.

A murmur passed through the guests like a ghost.

It wasn’t fear. Not yet. Just confusion they didn’t know they were feeling.

“You may now kiss the bride.” Said the priest in a shaky voice

She turned.

His eyes were open. But too open. Dry.

The lips didn’t twitch. The hands didn’t flex. The groom didn’t move.

She kissed him gently, like they’d practiced.

But as she pulled away—

His skin peeled slightly from the corner of his mouth.

The priest dropped the Bible.

A child screamed.

And someone whispered, “He’s not breathing.”

Because he wasn’t.

Because he’d been dead since February.