Chapter One

Isabella, baby, don't frown; these are the cons of an arranged marriage.

Aria walked toward Isabella in her usual enthusiastic steps.

Her heels slammed the marble floor as she approached the proposed bride of the day, ISABELLA KORNEH.

Isabella looked at the windows, her eyes scanning the flower garden filled with carefully tended black, thornful roses, and the hourglass that stayed on the table beside her. The atmosphere felt oddly blossoming.

Indeed, it was the day poised for two distant souls to be wedded. But do weddings between strangers deserve such etiquette and wealth when happiness is uncertain?

With effortless steps, she moved toward Aria. The smile on her face could not be read from her lips, but her eyes betrayed her as she held Aria's hand, her fingers caressing Aria’s blonde hair.

Aria, Isabella called out in a gentle tone, "You'd say, if the groom is found dead at the entrance of his wedding..."

She paused, turning toward the hourglass.

"Would that be a good topic for today's and tomorrow's headlines?"

Aria’s fists tightened, and she bit her lips as chills ran down her spine upon hearing Isabella’s words.

Fearfully calming her breath, she finally spoke.

"This room has been examined by the Vandash family with thorough security measures."

She paused, swallowing hard.

Stepping forward, she pulled Isabella by the hand. Isabella, in her unknown state, followed carefully. Aria banged on the restroom doors with her hands as they both entered inside, slamming the door closed.

She let go of Isabella's hand as the atmosphere began heating bit by bit.

Frowning at the bride-to-be, Aria felt the aura of dismissal, it was unlike the Isabella she had known for years.

Instantly mustering courage, Aria spoke, "You aren't Isabella. Isabella would never think about murdering a fly, let alone a human."

Immediately, Isabella’s eyes widened, her words snapping hard like an arrow.

Without a second thought, her hand grabbed Aria's neck, pinning her to the wall. She smiled an eerie smile that promised no good.

Aria struggled, trying to pull Isabella’s hands away, but she was no match for this strange Isabella.

Fear instantly coursed through her body, her breath nearly seizing. Isabella spoke, eyes gasping:

"So what if I’m Isabella or not? What have you got to do with it?"

Her face moved to the corner of the room. She continued, "Don’t you know boundaries? Didn’t your mama teach you utmost respect?"

She kept staring into Aria's eyes in fury and terror, the reason behind the intense gaze unknown.

Finally letting go of Aria's neck, the almost breathless Aria fell to the floor, instantly passing out, lying like a child terrified by shadows at the hospital.

Isabella walked out of the restroom, her heels slamming against the floor, and moved toward the mirror, catching her reflection in fragments first.

Cotton silk draped her body like a secret, the wedding gown clinging gently at the waist before falling in disciplined folds. Isabella tilted her head, studying her profile. The curve of her cheek. The calm set of her lips. Too calm for a bride.

She lifted the fabric between her fingers, smoothing an invisible crease, as though perfection were a requirement for what came next.

Behind her, the room remained unnervingly still. No laughter. No footsteps. Even the air seemed to wait.

The phone rang.

She didn’t flinch. Her eyes stayed locked on the mirror as she answered, lifting the device with the same grace she’d used to adjust her veil.

“Viktor,” she said softly, before the caller could speak.

A pause. Somewhere on the other end, someone hesitated.

“The moment the groom arrives at the temple,” she continued, her voice even, almost bored, “one clean shot to the forehead.”

She reached for the necklace on the vanity, fastening it slowly while a deliberate smile played across her face.

“Then another,” she added, examining the way the diamonds rested against her throat, “to the areola. I want no doubts. No miracles.”

Silence answered her. The caller seemed less surprised, but one thing was certain: an ambush remains an ambush.

Isabella smiled, not with her lips, but with her eyes. The reflection of something cold and deliberate sharpened her gaze.

She ended the call and finally turned from the mirror.

Immediately, the bell rang. She fixed her wristwatch not to keep time, but to count the minutes her prey still lived.

Raising the bouquet, she calmly walked toward the exit door.

The bride was ready, so was chaos, and either way, Hill City would be ready for the news headlines in hours.

Guests sat while others stood in wait for the bride’s arrival. Socialites and elites were curious to know who the future Mrs. Vandash would be.

Ladies came out of jealousy and curiosity, many to maintain etiquette.

When the doors of the grand hall opened, everyone held their breath in anticipation.

For a flickering moment, there was no bride or groom, only the door opened and the bodyguards standing beside it.

Guests hissed and gossiped: “The weddings of wealthy families always come with surprises.”

Another turned and spoke to the lady beside her: “Heard it was an arranged marriage, but I can’t wait to watch the drama this heavenly family would present to us.”

They laughed and cheered as the bride’s footsteps were heard.

The hall held its breath as Isabella walked toward the altar. The air wrapped around her in layers of restrained wealth as she smiled politely at the distinguished guests.

Ladies and gentlemen praised her beauty as she walked past the flower trail specially orchestrated for her.

The polished scent of luxurious sandalwood and cold marble turned warm due to the flowers, while faint amber incense clung to the chandeliers like an unfinished prayer.

White orchids and calla lilies lined the aisle. Their scent clean and aloof, beauty curated rather than celebrated.

With every step, bergamot and bitter orange rose from the linen-draped seats, sharp and dignified, cutting through the hush.

Beneath it all lingered leather and old paper, the quiet perfume of power, of signatures and sealed promises.

Indeed, events made by the wealthy needed not announce their hosts.

The altar waited. Empty.

No cologne disturbed the air. No masculine warmth, no groom to anchor the moment. Only incense smoke and warm flowers, drifting where the groom should have stood, turning the walk into something ceremonial rather than romantic.

By the time she reached the altar, the scent told the truth before anyone spoke. This was not a wedding, it was an announcement.

Holding the hand of the priest, she climbed up, bowing in respect to the guests and her future father-in-law.

It was then that the old man walked to the altar, intending to calm the bride, giving her the assurance that her groom would be there any minute. But messengers rushed into the hall, falling to their knees.

The crowd shuttered, murmurs spiraling through the air.

“Mr. Damian has left the country, sir,” they said. “He left only a voice recording.”

Nathan Wayne, who had served Damian the proposed groom spoke.

The guests were stunned. Whispering spread like wildfire.

“I knew events by the rich always have eventually,” a lady spoke mockingly. Another showed pity with a smile.

Old Mr. Samson Vandash grew angrier in the chaos.

Amidst the hall, Isabella felt weak and shaken; her grace and eerie composure unraveling into shock and tears, as though she had just woken to bad news.

The old man rose before anyone dared move. His cane struck the marble in a clean, final move. The whispering faltered.

He could not acknowledge the groom’s absence; to him, it was an inconvenience, nothing more.

“Proceed,” he said to the priest.

The priest hesitated, fingers tightening around the prayer book. He turned to the altar, the bride, and the emptiness created by the groom. Speechless, he whispered in his heart: “A wedding without a groom is not a mistake; it is blasphemy and dismal.”

Yet the father-in-law’s stare carried more weight than doctrine. Money, influence, threats unspoken but understood.

“I said,” the old man repeated, softer now, “proceed.”

The priest nodded.

The bride lifted her head. Her smile arrived late and wrong, stitched together, trembling at the edges. Tears pooled in her eyes under the chandeliers, but she did not let them fall. Not yet.

She stood as she had been taught. Spine straight, hands calm, dignity perfectly rehearsed.

Around her, the hall breathed again with whispers:

“Is this a joke?”

“The great Vandash family could abandon their bride?”

“Poor bride?”

“Power makes its own rules.”

A woman covered her mouth, failing to hide a smirk. A man leaned closer to his wife, voice low: “This would make top headlines in all media houses.”

Phones remained hidden, but eyes recorded everything.

The priest began the rites. Words meant for two fell into the space meant for one. Each vow echoed, unanswered, heavy on the bride’s shoulders. She nodded when expected, smiled when required. Her eyes shimmered, not with joy, but with effort.

The father-in-law watched in silence, satisfied but guilt-tripped. He had vowed to give his daughter-in-law the best wedding, but fate had other plans. This was not about love. Completion mattered. No absence, human or moral would interrupt it.

Moments later, the bride was served the ring meant for two. She wore both rings on her fingers. The chandelier above shook miserably, drawing the attention of guests.

Nathan ordered the chandelier verified, but before the guards could move, it fell downward. Before it reached the floor, a gunshot spiraled upward, grabbing the crowd’s attention. Another shot followed.

The bodyguards of the Vandash family sprang into action. Gunfire spiraled through the hall. Guests hid for safety.

Nathan and other guards protected the old man while the police arrived. Within minutes, shots calmed due to the officers’ intervention. Ambulances arrived, journalists interceded.

Old Mr. Samson, well-protected, watched the unconscious bride disappear into the hospital doors.

Sirens tore through the stunned silence. Red and blue lights washed over broken glass, blood-stained marble, and the remnants of a wedding turned massacre.

Inside the hospital, chaos resumed. Orderlies rushed as the ambulance doors flew open. The bride was lifted onto a gurney, her veil torn, gown soaked, pearls clattering softly.

Doctors barked instructions. Nurses followed in practiced urgency.

Old Mr. Samson stepped out slowly, guarded on both sides. His composure returned, but his eyes lingered on the bride.

For a fleeting second, something unreadable crossed his face: regret, perhaps, or calculation.

“Save her,” he said quietly, more command than plea. The doors swung shut.

Cameras flashed outside. Reporters shouted questions he refused to answer. As he turned away, one thought echoed in his mind: “An unfortunate wedding.” Yet beneath it lay an unsettling relief. His son had not witnessed it… or been caught in it.

Somewhere beyond those doors, between life and silence, the bride was fighting a battle she never chose.

Chapter Two

Mr. Damian!

Nathan called out, his head bowed down while he was speaking on the phone to Mr. Damian Vandash, the proposed groom and husband.

Unmoved by the accounts and events, Damian coldly concluded that everything must have been orchestrated by the bride herself.

In the corner, old man Mr. Samson looked at his reflection in the mirror-like wall, but his actual interest was in seeing his victimized grand daughter-in-law, who was in the operating room.

The quiet corridors of the hospital sounded like a grieving lament. When the doctor emerged from the operating room and finally announced that the patient was out of danger, only then did the old man's tense heart find peace. He had been saved by his wronged grand daughter-in-law right at the altar, an act that nearly yielded her shame, and from that moment, he knew he was indebted to her.

With a relieved smile, he turned to Nathan and said, "For my gracious daughter-in-law, prepare a family welcome banquet; let her feel the love her husband had failed to give her on her marital day. Let her forget that she spent her marital night as a wife in this hospital."

The old man paused, his eyes clouded with resolve. For long, he had made countless enemies, but he had least expected they would strike on his son's wedding.

Somewhere far from the hospital, Aria woke up, feeling dizzy and weak, her legs numb and sore. She pushed open the restroom door and stepped out, her gaze immediately drawn to the television mounted on the wall.

Reporters filled the screen, their voices heavy with concern as they delivered updates on the Vandash wedding procession, an event that had turned into a haunting mix of blood and white.

At once, she recalled the events that had taken place before she passed out. Fear and surprise triggered in her heart, crawling across her skin, as the atmosphere around her suddenly felt cold and deadly.

Still staring at the television, she caught a brief glimpse of the bride being lifted into the ambulance.

Aria felt a shock through her heart and without hesitation,  she spun towards the door and rushed out of the bridal chamber.

Policemen stationed outside quickly noticed her and moved up to stop her.

"What are you doing inside here, young lady?" one asked, his tone mixed with curiosity, care, and suspicion.

"You are now a major suspect," another officer stated bluntly.

A major suspect?

The words spun in Aria's heart as confusion and awe twisted her thoughts. What exactly had happened? The news was all contradicting her memory.

Her eyes darted around the scattered hall from the corner until she caught a glimpse of it on the table. Blood stains were smeared across the table, more splattered on the floor. Fear and unease grew deep and dark within her.

She recalled her last moments with Isabella: being grabbed, choked, and then nothingness before she passed out.

The details and events weren't adding up; everything felt fabricated on its own.

Her knees trembled as she tried to step forward. The room spun violently, her vision seemed blurry, until she collapsed finally into the arms of one of the officers. She fainted.

As soon as the officer lifted Aria into his arms, another followed closely behind as they made their way out of the hall, unaware of the inevitability waiting for them.

The moment they stepped outside, the building behind them, once a monument of luxury and prestige, erupted in a violent explosion.

The blast hurled the officers and the unconscious Aria to the ground as they instinctively shielded themselves.

Inside, officers who managed to escape stumbled out through smoke and debris. Reporters and journalists ran backward in panic. Chaos swallowed the scene. Shouts, sirens, and more victims collapsing amid the wreckage.

The horrifying moment was broadcast live, narrated by trembling reporters and media houses.

From afar, Damian watched the unfolding disaster from his home. At the hospital, Mr. Samson stared at the screen, slowly shaking his head in disbelief and sorrow. Nathan stood nearby, unmoved, daring not to utter a word.

As Mr. Samson turned away, Nathan reached for the remote and switched off the television, plunging the room into silence. Only the gentle, rhythmic beeping of the monitor remained, marking the steady breath of a sleeping and recovering Isabella.

Night came after a long day. Sarah, the chief maid and chef of the Vandash family, sat on the chair beside Isabella with a box of food on her lap. Worried and eager for Isabella's awakening, she picked up the wiper from the drawer beside her, attempting to wipe Isabella's face, but before the wiper could touch her face, Sarah noticed Isabella's hands moving slowly and out of rhythm.

The body and soul were waking before the eyes and voice. Sarah instantly sat back, slowly tapping Isabella's hands for more reactions, but was stunned by the response she got.

Isabella quickly got up like a ghost in a horror movie, instantly grabbing Sarah's arm. As their eyes met, Isabella's eyes, like murderous gems, planted fear and terror in Sarah's body as Sarah struggled for release.

At this moment, old Mr. Samson walked inside the room, stunned by the scene. He shook, almost falling but caught by Nathan. He instinctively spoke up with fear and respect, his old voice wrenched: "My child."

The moment Isabella and Sarah heard his voice, Isabella felt a sharp pain in her body. Her eyes turned normal, and the monitor that had paused minutes ago when she woke up began beeping again. Her back ached from the gunshot earlier, making it worse. The activities of the wedding came spinning into her memory like a rainbow after a heavy storm. She instinctively grabbed her head while crying in pain.

Mr. Samson quickly rushed forward, while Sarah made way for him. He dropped his staff as Nathan left to call the doctor.

"My dear daughter-in-law," Mr. Samson spoke while rubbing her hands together. "Thank heavens you are awake. I was so worried. You just focus on getting well; I know I owe you an explanation."

His eyes could express the gratitude of a grateful person. When the doctor walked in with Nathan, Isabella had a clear look at Nathan. She couldn't understand her earlier reaction when she woke up. Something felt wrong somewhere, she thought, as a trail of confusion swirled in her heart, but silence was best for now.

After a few minutes of examining the patient, the doctor assured everyone that everything was alright, as the shots weren't too deep, and the patient could be discharged the next morning.

Mr. Samson smiled at Isabella. "Let the young lady eat," he paused, turning towards Sarah. "Good health is wealth for my Vandash family." As he got up, he left the room.

Nathan quietly dropped her phone on the table and silently followed Mr. Samson as if on order.

Sarah, who had been terrified earlier, carefully opened the box while crossing the food table onto the bed for Isabella.

"I'm sorry about the events from earlier, Aunt," Isabella spoke quietly and innocently, her voice soft enough to break any doubt. But the words shocked Sarah even more. She, just a maid for the Vandash empire, dared not demand or accept an apology from the mistress of the great household. Calmly, she smiled, claiming all was alright.

The night passed with healthy sleep and rest. Aria lay in her bed, recounting the events of the day like counting stars. She kept wondering, "Had it been Isabella at the wedding?"

She turned to the other side of her bed, picking up her phone as she opened her contacts list to dial Isabella's line, but the thoughts kept spiraling in her heart. "Why would Isabella try to strangle me? Something is wrong somewhere." And certainly, something was wrong, but the root cause remained unknown.

At the hospital, Isabella peacefully hoped for the next morning to break. Morning cleared the sky. People all over Hill City knew of the events at the wedding. Television channels, media houses, and social media platforms had reported it, and now this wedding of yesterday was both a popular event and a celebrity-cursed bride story.

When Isabella scrolled through her phone, many laughed at the events of yesterday, many with pitiful words. She couldn't hold back her tears. This scene was witnessed by Sarah, who hurriedly reported it to Mr. Samson.

Hours later, they  arrived at the glorious Vandash Manor, the heavy gates closing slowly behind them.

Bodyguards dressed in black and white stood at attention, and maids were stationed nearby.

At the doorway, the Vandash family awaited: Mr. Samson Vandash, the eldest and Damian’s grandfather; Elena Vandash, Damian’s mother, who had long despised the bride for being an orphan and thus lacking status in elite society; Phyn Vandash, Damian’s younger sister; and Gideon Cross, who was not a true member of the Vandash family, his mother having married out, his father’s surname being Cross.

Their eyes spoke before their lips ever could.

None of them, except Mr. Samson, welcomed the bride. Only the old man wore a genuine smile, one filled with relief and pride.

Nathan and Sarah stepped forward first, guiding Isabella toward the entrance.

Her steps were slow, restrained by pain and the weight of unfamiliar gazes. Every eye followed her movement, measuring, judging, and silently questioning her worth.

Elena’s lips tightened the moment Isabella came into view. She said nothing, yet her displeasure was unmistakable.

Phyn observed with curiosity masked as indifference, while Gideon’s gaze lingered longer than necessary, unreadable and sharp.

Mr. Samson broke the silence by stepping forward. His walking stick tapped lightly against the marble floor as he approached Isabella, his expression warm.

“Welcome home, my grand daughter-in-law, grand pa is glad you are here” he said.

The words echoed through the grand entrance, marking the beginning of a union far from peaceful, bound not by love alone, but by fate, blood, and unspoken grudges.

Just as Isabella stepped into the entrance, a unified voice rang in her ears. “Welcome home, young Mrs. Damian. We are all at your disposal.”

She was startled. She glanced back and offered a small smile.

The entrance hall of the Vandash Manor felt grand, with elite designs and sculptures lining the walls. The silver and gold colors of the walls felt heavenly, enhanced by the scent of fresh honey drifting gently through the nostrils.

Isabella, who had grown up in an orphanage, wore a sincere and happier smile for the first time.

She felt as though she had stepped into a world of pure gold and riches.

Memories of her childhood with her best friend, Aria, came rushing in like a rollercoaster, moments of dreaming about living rich, marrying into wealthy families, and enjoying splendid luxury.

Isabella smiled even more, but her dreamy state of mind was instantly noticed by her mother-in-law, Mrs. Elena Vandash, who snapped at her sharply.

“Wake up from your dreamy life. Peasants can never be free in a world that’s not meant for them.”  With a smirk on her face, she passed Isabella with folded hands and an arrogant look.

Isabella was stunned and awakened..

She, who had always had a sharp tongue, was about to speak when she suddenly heard a voice inside her.

“Slap her hard across the face, and she will know that the weak do not belong in the world of the strong.”

Isabella was even more stunned. Who was that?

Her face displayed disbelief, which was misunderstood by her grandfather-in-law as he moved his face closer to hers.  “Don’t mind the words of a fool; they echo in the ears like sour wine and leave no taste once you forget them.”

Isabella nodded and smiled. It seemed she had gained a backup with her life-saving grace. Indeed, heaven was fair.

Phyn angrily stamped her foot on the floor and retorted,  “Grandpa, she’s from the slum.  Gideon and I confirmed it, so Mum is right anyway.”

Gideon remained silent but cautious, while Mr. Samson and the others paused for a moment.

“Foolish begets foolishness,” he said,  pausing to take a breath, then continued, “Indeed, the apple does not fall far from the tree.”

Chapter Three

“What’s wrong with the old man acting innocent? It’s not like foolishness began with the mother; it’s more of a family heritage.”

Isabella shook her head, trying to figure out where the voices were coming from.

“Does this Vandash manor hold some sort of dark magic, or am I just imagining things?”

Her heart raced uncontrollably.

She was physically present and conscious, yet her mind, and awareness felt detached, drifting somewhere else.

“Ma’am.”

Isabella jolted as Sarah’s cold palm touched her shoulder. Startled, she responded with shaking hands and a trembling voice that revealed how unsteady she was.

“Aunt Sarah… what’s wrong?”

Before Sarah could speak, Gideon stepped closer to Isabella.

“Sister-in-law,” he said, pausing as he casually shook the yo-yo in his hands. With a guilty yet disdainful smile, he asked,

“Are you sorrowful for not spending your wedding night with your husband? Or sad that only Grandpa attended your wedding? Or perhaps still sulking because the groom himself was absent?”

Gideon’s eyes held no remorse, only mockery disguised as concern, ready to reopen old wounds.

Isabella, weak and soft-spoken, felt tears well in her eyes. Her mother-in-law smiled maliciously at Gideon’s words, as did Phyn.

They all watched her closely, anticipating her collapse into vulnerability.

The old man stood silently. He had always prayed for a granddaughter-in-law who could defend herself. To him, their questions were a test, and he waited patiently for Isabella’s response.

Her legs trembled as words failed her. Isabella bit her lip, wishing Aria were there. Then suddenly, dizziness washed over her, followed by a strange shift, as if something inside her snapped awake.

It felt like a transformation from a dull confusion to piercing clarity.

She lifted her head, her expression sharpening into a fierce glow that dared anyone to challenge her.

“Hmph.”

She scoffed before speaking.

“My wedding was never meant for weak bones or fools,” she said calmly. “I walked with grace and honor. Despite the chaos that erupted, I can’t help but feel that God spared your absence so He wouldn’t have to take your lives instead.”

She paused, turning toward Gideon.

“Who knows? Maybe fate intended for you to die on my wedding day.”

Taking a step back, she faced her mother-in-law.

“You weren’t even worthy of attending my wedding, neither you nor your son.”

The old man slammed his staff against the floor.

Elena’s eyes widened. Phyn stiffened. Sarah, Nathan, everyone froze.

No one had ever dared to insult Mr. Damian.

“Of course,” Sarah thought grimly, “her doom has just begun.”

“Insolence!” Madam Elena snapped. “No one dares speak ill of my son, not even me, his birth mother! How dare you!”

She lunged forward, her palm raised, ready to strike Isabella.

“Stop.”

Mr. Samson’s voice thundered with fury.

Isabella smiled faintly at his reaction. Deep down, she felt as though her body had split in two, each half pulling her toward decisions that no longer aligned.

The old man turned to her.

“My child.”

He took Isabella’s hand, his smile gentle yet commanding, offering reassurance and protection before continuing.

“No one has ever spoken ill of Damian except his grandfather. And now you, his wife. From now on, make sure that brat returns home and is properly punished for missing his own wedding.”

He chuckled lightly.

“Don’t worry. Grandpa has you covered.”

Still smiling, he turned toward Nathan, his gaze issuing a silent command. Nathan immediately understood.

“My lady, you should rest and change,” Nathan said respectfully, lowering his head.“The family banquet will begin in an hour.”

With a subtle gesture, he signaled Sarah to escort Isabella upstairs.

The ascent up the staircase was silent and composed.

Behind them, Mr. Samson glanced at Elena and shook his head faintly before signaling to Nathan.

Together, they exited the hall.

Sarah stopped before a tall metal door paneled in polished sycamore, its flawless surface reflecting the soft white glow of recessed lights.

She pushed it open, revealing a room so meticulously arranged it needed no extravagance to announce wealth.

The air was sharp and sterile, controlled, deliberate, and expensive.

Stepping aside, Sarah lowered her head.

“Madam, this is the master’s bedroom. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

Isabella smiled faintly.

“No need for introductions, Aunt Sarah. I’ll figure things out myself.”

Sarah’s expression remained unchanged.

“Madam, I’ve served the Vandash family since before Mr. Damian was born. I was here before Madam Elena married into this house. I know this place and its history better than you.”

She paused, her eyes sweeping the corridor as if checking for unseen cameras.

Pressing a hand to her chest, she added quietly,

“Never mention the old lady, Mrs. Montana Vandash. That name is forbidden here.”

Without waiting for a response, Sarah turned and walked away.

Isabella scoffed arrogantly as she shut the door behind her.

But the moment she stepped forward, her foot caught.

A surge of electricity shot through her body from a concealed wire.

She screamed as violent convulsions wracked her frame, her body collapsing to the floor. Moments later, she lay completely unconscious.

Phyn stood against the wall, a remote control resting in her hand. She watched everything unfold through her phone, a slow, satisfied smile curving her lips.

Certain Isabella had passed out, Phyn entered the room. She bent down beside her and whispered mischievously,

“Sister-in-law, I hope you liked my gift.”

Laughing softly, she straightened and left.

Down the stairs, a guard stood at attention.

“Take care of the security footage,” Phyn said calmly. “A nice reward, in exchange for a nice job.”

With that, she smiled and walked away.

Elsewhere, Aria sat in her home, a shabby environment, the room tattered and overflowing with scattered clothes.

She sat motionless, staring blankly at her phone while peanuts slipped from her mouth. Her frustration was visible even from afar. Lost in thought, her mind lingered on Isabella’s whereabouts.

She had spent half the morning searching for information about the hospital Isabella was taken to after the wedding massacre. But, as expected of the Vandash family, their actions left behind only traces that could be uncovered by the powerful, not by a peasant of her status.

As she worried over Isabella’s location, health, and state of mind, a thought suddenly struck her. “If the Vandash family held a marriage, then it’s normal for a wealthy household to host a welcome banquet afterward.”

She sighed in despair.

“What kind of sane family would hold a banquet after a wedding that ended in blood and nearly cost lives?”

Yet for Isabella, it would be worth taking the bait.

“Fight. Fight. Fight,” she encouraged herself as she stood up. A wave of relief and hope washed over her.

She pulled on her jacket and grabbed her nose mask. Hyping herself up, she whispered, “Disguises are always the main attire.” She wrapped the tie tightly around her face, slipped on the mask, and stepped out, her eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.

It was time to search for her friend, but unbeknownst to her, another gang was already planning to visit Isabella at that very same banquet.

In less than an hour, the banquet was set to begin. The hall glowed like a kingdom carved from wealth. Crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling, each prism catching the light and scattering it like falling stars across the polished marble floor.

Gold-lined pillars stood in perfect symmetry, their engraved surfaces whispering of lineage and power far older than memory.

Long tables draped in silk stretched across the hall, set with fine porcelain, silver cutlery, and floral arrangements so rare their fragrance alone betrayed their cost.

A soft orchestral melody flowed through the subtle air, commanding and blending with the low murmur of elite conversation.

Guests paused at the entrance, momentarily stunned.

“My heavens,” one whispered, eyes tracing the ceiling. “This hall alone could fund a city.”

Another scoffed, half-laughing in awe. “Only the Vandash family would call this… modest.”

Laughter followed, hushed and reverent.

“Every stone here screams power,” a noblewoman murmured, lifting her glass. “This isn’t a banquet, it’s a declaration.”

Servants moved soundlessly among the guests, uniforms immaculate, steps trained never to disturb the illusion of perfection. Every detail, the air, the music, the spacing between breaths had been calculated to remind all present of one truth. This was not a place for ordinary people.

This was a hall built to intimidate, impress, and reign.

Phyn and Gideon stood near the far corner of the banquet hall, their postures relaxed yet deliberate. They spoke little, observed much while bearing the quiet authority expected of the Vandash family. Guests instinctively lowered their voices when passing them, as though the air itself demanded restraint.

At the center of the hall, Madam Elena Vandash moved with effortless composure. Her smile was warm, practiced, and perfectly timed as she welcomed each guest, exchanging pleasantries and laughter as though the night held no shadows.

“Elena, my dear,” a woman said fondly, taking her hand. “Your daughter-in-law must be elegant and graceful. Despite the attack at the wedding, you still hosted a ceremony for her. Truly, such devotion is worthy of the Vandash name.”

Elena smiled in return, her expression unshaken. Yet beneath the polished calm, she felt nothing resembling joy. The banquet was not a celebration, it was a statement. And Isabella would not be allowed to appear.

Beyond the reach of the guests’ admiration, hidden behind the layers of silk and music, old Mr. Samson sat quietly. His sharp eyes followed every movement in the hall, missing nothing. From the placement of the guards to the rhythm of their patrols, everything unfolded under his watch.

Nathan moved swiftly among the other bodyguards, issuing low commands, adjusting positions, sealing gaps. Security tonight was not an option, it was a necessity.

Mr. Samson folded his hands calmly in his lap. Whatever this night was meant to become, one thing was certain: his newly wedded granddaughter-in-law would not suffer harm again.

After some time, the banquet hall settled into readiness. The final arrangements were made, servers aligned themselves along the walls, and the music softened into a patient hush. When the host finally stepped forward and took the podium, the hall responded at once, attention gathering like a tide.

“Esteemed guests,” he announced calmly, “the Vandash banquet is now officially open.”

Applause followed, measured, polite, expected.

As the sound faded, a side door opened quietly. Aria slipped inside. She moved carefully, keeping to the edges of the hall, her head lowered and her face hidden beneath a mask and scarf.

In the glow of crystal lights and silk gowns, she looked out of place, less a guest, more a shadow that had wandered in by mistake. Each step felt deliberate, cautious, as though the marble floor itself might betray her.

She had almost blended into the crowd when her shoulder brushed against someone else.

The contact was light, but enough.

Aria halted, her heart skipping. She drew in a sharp breath and looked up.

Recognition came instantly.

“Aunt Sarah,” she said softly, instinctively pulling her mask down.

Sarah stopped. At first, confusion crossed her face.

Then her gaze sharpened, studying Aria more closely, the eyes, the voice, the familiarity. The memory surfaced: the bridal fitting room, Isabella standing nearby.

“It’s you,” Sarah said under her breath. Her eyes flicked around the hall before returning to Aria. “What are you doing here like this?”

Aria gave a small, embarrassed smile. “I just wanted to see her.”

Sarah sighed, the weight of her responsibilities pressing through her tone. “I don’t have time to talk,” she said, already half turned away. Then she paused, as if reconsidering. “The young madam was discharged from the hospital this morning. She’s resting now, but she’ll appear for the banquet soon enough.”

For a moment, Aria couldn’t speak.

“She’s… safe?” she asked quietly.

Sarah nodded once. “As safe as she can be.” She straightened. “I really must go.”

Aria hesitated, then gathered her courage. “Aunt Sarah,” she said, lowering her eyes, “could you help me? Just with a proper dress… and a way to enter without drawing attention.”

Sarah looked over slowly, from the worn disguise to the anxious hope in her expression. She exhaled.

“Follow me,” she said at last.

As they disappeared into the crowd, Aria’s heart finally began to slow. Hope stirred within her, the promise of reunion, of answers. The fear that had followed her into the hall softened, replaced by something fragile and unfamiliar: relief.

Meanwhile, Madam Elena, Phyn, and Gideon smiled quietly, confident that the main figure of the banquet would not be present. What they failed to consider, however, was the inevitability of what was yet to come.