He promised me, “Baby, he’ll make sure you’re safe.” Novi had smiled and nodded and lied.
Because that’s what you did for dying mothers. You gave them comfort. You gave them peace.
You gave them beautiful, beautiful lies. But the truth, Vernon Cross was a snake wearing human skin.
And he’d married Miranda for her modest savings and her life insurance policy. He’d tolerated Novi because she kept the house clean and didn’t cause trouble.
And the moment Miranda was buried, he’d revealed his true face. Cruel and calculating and utterly without conscience.
The savings vanished into poker games. The life insurance disappeared into investments that never materialized.
Within a year, Vernon had gambled himself into a hole so deep that not even his lies could fill it.
$4 million. That’s what he owed Desmond Brown, a wealthy businessman with silver hair and expensive tastes, including a taste for women young enough to be his daughters.
And Vernon, ever resourceful, had offered the only thing of value he had left, his stepdaughter.
You’ll marry him, Vernon had said three months ago, his watery eyes cold as a sharks.
Or I’ll destroy you. I’ll ruin your reputation. I’ll make sure no one in this city ever gives you a job, a chance, a second look.
You think you’re going to sing your way out of poverty? He’d laughed, mean and ugly.
Try getting a record deal when I’m done with your name. Novi had tried everything legal.
Police, lawyers, shelters. None of it worked. Vernon had connections. Desmond had money. Together, they’d blocked every exit until marriage was the only door left.
But today, today, Novi had decided to make her own door. Knock knock knock. Miss Palmer, the ceremony begins in 15 minutes.
Mr. Brown is expecting you. Novi stared at the door. Two armed guards stood on the other side.
She could see their shadows through the gap at the bottom. They weren’t protection. They were prison bars.
“Oh well,” she thought, squaring her shoulders. “Let’s see how well those bars hold.” She cracked the door open and let her face crumble into an expression of mortified embarrassment.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice small and panicked. “I need help. It’s It’s a feminine emergency.”
The guard’s expressions shifted from professional to deeply uncomfortable. “A what?” Guard one asked. You know, Novi let her voice climb toward hysteria.
A woman’s emergency. I need products, pads, tampons. She paused for effect. The heavy flow kind right now.
Guard two looked like he wanted to melt through the floor. We can’t leave our post.
It’s already on the dress. No’s voice cracked dramatically. Do you want to explain to Mr.
Brown why his bride walked down the aisle with a stain? Do you want to tell him you refused to help me when I begged for basic feminine hygiene?
Both guards faces drained of color. We’ll we’ll find something. Guard one stammered. Hurry. They practically sprinted down the hallway.
The moment they vanished around the corner, Novi moved. Running in a wedding dress was like trying to sprint through quicksand while dragging a parachute.
The skirt caught on everything. Door handles, furniture corners, a decorative plant that crashed to the floor behind her with a spectacular bang.
The noise echoed through the hallway like a starting gun. Move faster, faster. Novi found a service corridor and ducked inside, pressing herself against the wall as two hotel staff members walked past, arguing about whose turn it was to restock the mini bar.
Her heart was a war drum in her chest. Her lungs screamed for air. Her elaborate updo was disintegrating, pins scattering behind her like breadcrumbs in a fairy tale.
The service exit. If I can just reach. She’s gone. The bride is gone. No, no, no, no, no.
Voices erupted through the hallways. Footsteps thundered on marble. Find her. Search every floor. Block every exit.
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