Chapter 1: The Night Before the Wedding
POV: Isla Prescott
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Rain taps softly against the window.
Isla Prescott stands in the middle of her bedroom, staring at the wedding dress hanging from the wardrobe door. The white satin shimmers under the soft lamp light, almost glowing. Tiny pearls are sewn into the bodice, catching the light like small stars. She reaches out, her fingers brushing over the fabric carefully, almost shyly. It feels soft. Expensive. Real.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow she will marry Braxton Parker.
"Mrs. Parker," she whispers to the empty room.
The name sounds strange on her tongue, foreign and exciting at the same time. A small smile touches her lips. She turns away from the dress, wrapping her arms around herself. Through the window, she watches rain slide down the glass in slow rivers. The city lights blur outside, yellow and orange smears against the darkness.
For two years, Braxton has been the one steady thing in her life.
When Sophia's sharp words cut too deep at dinner, Braxton's text would arrive: Thinking of you. When Alexia's mockery followed her through the house—Still wearing last season's shoes, Isla?—Braxton would hold her hand and say, She's just jealous. When her father forgot another birthday, another promise, another chance to be a parent, Braxton showed up with flowers and cake and patience.
Patient. Gentle. Kind.
Or at least, that was what she believed.
Isla glances at the clock on her nightstand.
11:07 p.m.
Her phone sits next to the clock, Braxton's contact photo glowing softly on the screen. It's a picture she took months ago, him laughing at something she said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. She looks at it now, and her chest fills with warmth.
Suddenly, she misses him.
It's silly, she knows. They will be married in less than twelve hours. She will wake up, put on the white dress, walk down the aisle, and become his wife forever. Twelve hours is nothing.
But the thought of seeing him now, tonight, makes her heart beat faster.
"Just five minutes," she murmurs to herself.
She grabs her coat from the chair. It's a simple thing, navy blue and warm. She pulls it on as she walks to the door, her shoes clicking softly against the hardwood floor. The house is quiet. Everyone is asleep. Or so she assumes.
Outside, the rain is heavier than she thought.
Cold drops soak her coat immediately, darkening the fabric. She hurries to her car, a small sedan her father bought her two years ago. The engine starts with a soft hum. Wipers sweep across the windshield, pushing water aside.
New York looks different at night.
Quieter. Lonelier. Almost beautiful in a sad way.
Isla grips the steering wheel as she drives toward Braxton's apartment. Her stomach flutters nervously. What if he's asleep? What if he thinks she's crazy for showing up so late? What if—
She stops herself.
This is Braxton. Her Braxton. He will understand. He always understands.
The memory of his laugh plays in her mind. Soft. Warm. The way he laughs when she does something impulsive, like buying him a gift for no reason or showing up at his office with lunch. He always shakes his head and says, You're something else, Isla. And she always feels special.
Twenty minutes later, she parks outside his building.
It's a nice building, modern and tall. Glass and steel. The doorman stands under the awning, sheltered from the rain. He recognizes her car and nods politely as she approaches.
"Good evening, Miss Prescott."
"Good evening, Joseph," she replies softly.
He holds the door open for her. "Late visit tonight?"
"Just... wanted to see him."
Joseph smiles knowingly. "Congratulations on tomorrow, Miss Prescott. Mr. Parker is a lucky man."
Warmth spreads through her chest. "Thank you, Joseph."
The lobby is clean and bright. Marble floors. A large mirror on one wall. Isla catches her reflection as she passes—hair slightly damp, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with anticipation. She looks happy. She feels happy.
Braxton gave her a key months ago.
It was their six-month anniversary. He placed the small key in her palm and said, Anytime you want to see me. Day or night. I don't care when. Just come.
She carries that key everywhere now.
The elevator ride feels strangely long. Floor numbers light up one by one. Her reflection stares back from the polished metal doors. She smooths her damp hair, adjusts her coat, takes a deep breath.
When the doors open, the hallway is silent.
Carpet muffles her footsteps. Soft lighting lines the ceiling. She walks to apartment 24B, the key already in her hand.
The lock clicks open easily.
"Braxton?" she calls gently as she steps inside.
The apartment is dark except for a single lamp in the living room. She recognizes the space immediately—the leather couch they sat on last week, the kitchen island where they ate takeout, the window with the view of the city.
Her smile fades slightly.
"Braxton?"
Silence.
Maybe he's asleep.
She walks further inside, past the living room, toward the hallway that leads to the bedroom.
Then she hears it.
A laugh.
A woman's laugh.
Isla freezes.
Her heart skips a beat.
No... that can't be right. Maybe the TV is on. Maybe he fell asleep watching something. That happens sometimes. He works so hard, he—
Then Braxton's voice comes from the bedroom.
Low. Familiar. Murmuring something she can't make out.
Her chest loosens with relief. He's awake. He's fine. The laugh was probably from a show or a movie. She's being silly.
She walks down the hallway, her shoes silent on the carpet. The bedroom door is slightly open, warm light spilling through the crack.
She pushes the door open.
And the world shatters.
Braxton is in bed.
With Alexia.
Her stepsister's blonde hair spills across the pillows like honey. Her red lips are curved in a satisfied smile, the same smile she wears every time she makes Isla feel small. Her bare shoulders rise above the sheets. She doesn't move. Doesn't hide. Just lies there, looking directly at Isla.
For a moment, Isla can't breathe.
Can't think.
Can't do anything but stare.
Braxton turns first.
His eyes widen. His face drains of color. "Isla—"
Alexia doesn't even try to cover herself.
Instead, she laughs.
The sound cuts through the room like glass.
"Well," she drawls lazily, stretching like a cat, "look who finally showed up."
Isla's fingers tighten around the doorknob. Her knuckles turn white. The metal is cold against her skin, but she can't feel anything except the fire spreading through her chest.
"What..." Her voice barely comes out. It's small. Broken. "What are you doing?"
Braxton grabs the sheet, wrapping it around his waist quickly. Irritation flashes across his face. Not guilt. Not shame. Irritation.
"Isla, you shouldn't be here."
The words hit harder than any slap.
She blinks, tears already burning her eyes. "I... I have a key. You said—"
"I know what I said." His voice is sharp now. Impatient. "But you should have called first."
Alexia snorts from the bed. She swings her legs off the mattress, completely unconcerned about her nakedness. She grabs a robe from the chair and slips it on slowly, deliberately, like she's performing.
"You said you loved me," Isla whispers, looking only at Braxton.
Braxton sighs.
Actually sighs.
"Don't make this dramatic, Isla."
Alexia walks toward her, tying the robe loosely. Her smile is cruel, satisfied, victorious.
"Oh my God," she says, laughing softly. "She really believed you."
Isla's chest tightens painfully. It feels like someone is squeezing her heart. "Why?" she asks, her voice cracking. "Why would you do this?"
Alexia tilts her head, feigning thoughtfulness. "Because it was easy."
The word hits like a knife. Easy. She was easy.
Isla turns to Braxton, desperate. "Tell me she's lying. Tell me this is a mistake. Tell me something, Braxton. Please."
He looks away.
The silence stretches.
Alexia smirks. "See? Even he can't pretend anymore."
She steps closer to Isla, close enough that Isla can smell her perfume. The same perfume Isla smelled at dinner last week. The same perfume that lingered in Braxton's car when he picked her up that one time. The signs were there. She was just too blind to see.
"You're so quiet, Isla." Alexia's voice drips with mock pity. "So desperate to be loved. Always hiding in your room, always hoping someone will notice you. Braxton barely had to try. A few kind words. A little patience. And you gave him everything."
Tears blur Isla's vision. They spill down her cheeks, hot and unstoppable. "I trusted you," she whispers to Braxton. "Both of you."
Braxton finally looks at her. But there's no love in his eyes. No regret. Just annoyance, like she's inconveniencing him.
"You were going to marry me tomorrow," Isla says. "Tomorrow, Braxton."
He shrugs.
One simple movement. A lift of his shoulders.
"And?"
The word echoes in her skull.
And?
And what? And it doesn't matter? And tomorrow was just another day? And she meant nothing?
Alexia crosses her arms, enjoying every second. "Face it, Isla. He's in my bed because he wants to be. Not because of some contract or obligation. Because I'm what he actually wants."
Isla looks at her stepsister. Really looks at her. The perfect blonde hair. The confident smile. The easy way she moves through the world, taking whatever she wants because no one ever tells her no.
"How long?" Isla asks quietly.
Alexia raises an eyebrow. "What?"
"How long has this been going on?"
A pause. Then Alexia smiles wider. "Three months."
Three months.
Three months of Braxton holding her hand. Three months of him saying he loved her. Three months of planning a wedding, picking flowers, choosing music. Three months of lies.
Isla's legs feel weak. She grabs the doorframe to steady herself.
Braxton takes a step forward. "Isla, look—"
"Don't." Her voice is stronger now. Harder. "Don't touch me. Don't come near me. Don't ever say my name again."
She turns.
She runs.
Her footsteps pound against the carpet. Through the hallway. Past the living room. Out the door. The stairwell. Down, down, down. She doesn't wait for the elevator. Can't wait. Can't breathe.
Rain pours down as she stumbles into the street.
The cold hits her immediately, soaking through her coat, her clothes, her skin. But she doesn't feel it. She feels nothing except the tearing in her chest.
Her breath comes in sharp gasps. Sobs rack her body. She hugs herself, walking blindly, not knowing where she's going. The city blurs around her—lights, buildings, cars, people.
She thinks about her mother.
She thinks about how different things might have been if Clara had lived. If someone had been there to teach her that love shouldn't hurt. That trust should be earned. That she deserves more than scraps.
She thinks about her father, somewhere in that big house, probably asleep, probably not thinking about her at all.
She thinks about tomorrow. The dress. The flowers. The empty chairs where her family would have sat, pretending to care.
She thinks about Braxton's shrug.
And?
The traffic light ahead turns red.
Isla doesn't notice.
Her feet carry her forward, into the intersection.
Bright headlights suddenly flood her vision. They blind her, white and burning.
A horn blares. Long. Loud. Terrifying.
Isla looks up.
A truck is speeding toward her. Too fast. Too close. The driver's face is frozen in horror behind the windshield. His mouth is open. His hands grip the wheel.
For a split second, everything goes silent.
The rain stops falling.
The city disappears.
There is only the light and the sound of her own heart, beating one last time.
Isla thinks of her mother.
She thinks of what might have been.
Then the world explodes into metal, glass, and pain.
Her body lifts. Flies. Falls.
Blood mixes with rainwater, spreading across the asphalt like red flowers blooming.
Her eyes stay open, staring at the dark sky above. Raindrops fall into them, but she doesn't blink.
She doesn't feel anything anymore.
And darkness swallows her whole.
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