Wedding Massacre

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.

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