The first thing I felt was cold.
Not the soft, gilded warmth of a palace sunrise. Not the silk brushing against my skin. Just cold concrete pressing into my palms, dust in my nose, and the chill that seeped into my bones like it belonged there.
I blinked. Slowly. One eye, then the other. My head ached. My hair felt tangled and damp. And when I finally sat up, my stomach dropped into a pit of panic I hadn't felt in… well, ever.
The basement was small, windowless, and smelling like old metal and wet wood. The ceiling was low, the walls lined with shelves stacked haphazardly with tools, boxes, and what looked like old furniture. A single flickering bulb swung above me, casting shadows that danced like predators on the walls.
I tried to tell myself it was a dream.
That the wedding, the prince, the palace—everything—had been some elaborate fantasy my mind had cooked up after too many sleepless nights.
But I knew better.
I knew it because the hair at the back of my neck prickled.
A figure stepped out of the shadows, a knife glinting in the weak light. The tip caught the bulb's reflection, sharp and hungry. My stomach lurched. My pulse pounded like a drum in my ears.
And then—I remembered.
I had read this story. Every scene. Every line. Every terrifying, blood-stained twist. No Exit.
The moment my hair was grabbed and my head yanked back, the pain was real. The fear was real. The knife wasn't a prop.
This was no fairytale. No romance. No happy ending waiting at the end of the aisle.
I wasn't a princess here. I wasn't even a survivor yet.
And if I wanted to make it out alive, I would have to rewrite the rules faster than ever before.
Because in this story… the killer knew all the endings.
And I was just another character.