Elena
My reflection is a stranger in the gilded mirror. The girl looking back is wearing a dress the color of cream, delicate silk that whispers against her skin. Her hair is a cascade of soft waves, her makeup flawless. She looks happy. She looks in love. She is a perfect, beautiful lie.
My mother fusses with a stray curl behind my ear, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Oh, my baby. You’re glowing. Just glowing.”
I force a smile that feels like it might crack my face. “It’s a happy day, Mom.”
“The happiest,” she agrees, her voice thick with emotion. “Mark is such a wonderful man. He adores you. I can see it in the way he looks at you.”
I wonder what she would see if she looked closer. If she could see the viper coiled behind his charming smile. If she could see the ghost of me, bleeding on a marble floor.
The doorbell chimes, a cheerful, melodic sound that grates on my raw nerves. It is him.
“That must be Mark!” Mom claps her hands together, all giddy excitement. “I’ll let him in. You stay right here. Let him see you for the first time tonight.”
She hurries out of the room. I can hear their muffled voices from the hallway. Her bright, welcoming tone. His smooth, practiced charm. The sounds are so familiar they make my stomach clench into a tight, painful knot.
He appears in the doorway a moment later. He holds a bouquet of white lilies, my favorite. In my last life, I thought it was a gesture of his deep, intimate knowledge of me. Now I know it was just information Chloe fed him.
“Elena,” he breathes, his eyes sweeping over me. “You look… stunning. Absolutely stunning.”
“Hello, Mark.” My voice is steady. Too steady. The old Elena would have blushed and stammered.
He walks toward me, his gaze full of theatrical adoration. He is a phenomenal actor. I have to give him that. He stops in front of me and offers the flowers.
“For you,” he says, his voice a low murmur. “Though they pale in comparison.”
I take the lilies. My fingers brush against his. I feel nothing. No spark. No warmth. Just the cold, dead certainty of what he is.
“Thank you. They’re beautiful.” I turn to place them in a vase on my vanity, a calculated move to put a small distance between us.
He steps up behind me, his reflection joining mine in the mirror. He places his hands on my shoulders, his thumbs stroking my bare skin.
“Are you nervous?” he asks, his lips close to my ear.
“A little,” I lie, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “It’s a big night.”
“It’s the start of everything,” he says, and the hidden meaning in his words is a physical blow. He is talking about his future. The one built on my ruin. He smiles, a flash of white teeth. “Our everything.”
I turn in his arms, forcing my expression to soften. I place a hand on his chest, right over his heart. I wonder if it ever beats with genuine emotion, or if it is just a muscle, pumping blood to fuel his greed.
“I can’t wait,” I whisper. It is the truest thing I have said all day.
The party is a blur of champagne bubbles and fake smiles. Our family’s ballroom is packed with the city’s elite, all here to witness the union of two of its most prominent families. The air hums with polite conversation and the soft music of a string quartet.
I am a doll on display, moving through the crowd on Mark’s arm. I smile. I laugh. I accept congratulations from people whose names I barely remember. I play the part of the ecstatic bride to be. And all the while, I watch.
I watch Mark as he leans in to whisper something to his father, their eyes flicking towards my own father across the room. A business deal being sealed with my life.
I watch Chloe as she flits through the room like a social butterfly, her white, custom made dress making her look like an angel. The dress is a strategic choice, I know now. Innocent. Virginal. A stark contrast to the venom she hides.
And I see them together. The little things I was blind to before are now as bright and glaring as spotlights. A shared glance over the rim of a champagne flute. His hand, lingering for a fraction of a second too long on the small of her back as he passes. Her laugh, a little too loud, a little too bright, whenever he is near. They are so arrogant. So sure of my ignorance.
My father finds me by the towering champagne fountain. His face, usually so stern and businesslike, is soft tonight.
“You seem happy, pumpkin,” he says, using his old nickname for me.
“I am, Dad.” I link my arm through his. “Very happy.”
“Good. Mark is a good man. Ambitious. He’ll take care of you. And he’s good for the company.”
‘He will take care of me’. The words echo with bitter irony. I squeeze my father’s arm, a surge of protectiveness washing over me. He has no idea the kind of snake he is welcoming into his company, into his family.
“He is certainly ambitious,” I say, letting a hint of something cool enter my voice. My father gives me a curious look, but before he can comment, a microphone taps nearby.
Chloe is on the small stage, standing next to Mark, a champagne flute held high. Her smile is blinding. My stomach turns.
“If I could have everyone’s attention for just a moment,” she says, her voice ringing with false sincerity. The room quiets. All eyes turn to her.
“I just want to say a few words about my two favorite people.” Her eyes find mine, and they are filled with a sickening, saccharine sweetness. “Elena. My best friend. My sister. I have known you since we were learning to ride bikes, and I have never seen you as radiant as you are tonight. You have a heart of pure gold, and you deserve all the happiness in the world.”
My hand tightens around the stem of my own glass. Pure gold. Easily melted down and reshaped to their liking.
“And Mark,” she continues, turning her gaze to him. It is a look of such naked possession that I am shocked the whole room does not gasp. “You are the only man I have ever met who is worthy of my best friend. The way you love her, the way you protect her… it is what every woman dreams of. I could not be happier to welcome you into our little family.”
Her eyes flick back to me. “To Elena and Mark! May your life together be as beautiful as you both are tonight!”
The room erupts in applause. ‘To Elena and Mark!’ they all echo, raising their glasses. I raise mine, the smile on my face feeling painted on. I watch them on the stage. Mark puts his arm around Chloe’s waist, pulling her into a one armed hug of ‘thanks’. His fingers splay possessively against the white fabric of her dress. It is a gesture meant for a lover, not a friend.
And I know it is time.
I set down my empty glass and pick up a full one from a passing waiter’s tray. A deep, rich cabernet. The color of blood.
I make my way through the clusters of guests, murmuring apologies as I go. My target is Chloe, who has just stepped off the stage and is now holding court, basking in the glow of her perfect, heartfelt speech.
I approach her, my own expression a careful mask of adoration.
“Chloe,” I say, my voice just loud enough to be heard over the music. “That was the most beautiful toast I have ever heard. Thank you.”
She turns to me, her smile widening. “Of course, El. I meant every word.”
“I know you did,” I say softly.
And then I move. It is a tiny thing. A shift of my weight. A slight, almost imperceptible falter in my step as if my heel has caught on the edge of the rug. It is a movement I have practiced in my mind a hundred times today.
My hand lurches forward.
The red wine arcs through the air. A perfect, vivid slash of crimson against the pristine, angelic white of her custom gown.
It happens in an instant. A collective gasp ripples through the people standing closest to us. The string quartet seems to falter for a beat.
Chloe looks down. Her mouth falls open, a perfect ‘o’ of disbelief. The stain is huge, a grotesque, bleeding flower blooming right over her stomach. It soaks into the expensive fabric, spreading like a disease.
For a split second, her mask of sweet friendship slips. Raw, undiluted fury flashes in her eyes. It is the ugliest thing I have ever seen.
Then my own performance begins.
“Oh, my god!” I shriek, my voice high with manufactured horror. I clap a hand over my mouth, letting my wine glass drop to the carpet with a dull thud. “Chloe! Your dress! Oh, my god, I am so sorry!”
Heads turn from all over the ballroom. Mark is already pushing his way towards us, his face a thundercloud.
“What happened?” he demands, his eyes locking on the ruined dress.
“It was me!” I wail, forcing tears to well in my eyes. They feel hot and real. Tears of rage, not regret. “I tripped. I am so, so clumsy. Chloe, I’ve ruined it! Your beautiful dress, it’s ruined!”
I reach for her, as if to help, and she flinches away from me, her lips pressed into a thin, white line. She is trying desperately to hold onto her composure, but she is failing.
“It is fine, Elena,” she says, her voice tight and strained. “It is just a dress.”
“It’s not just a dress!” I cry, turning to Mark, making sure everyone sees my devastation. “It was custom made! I’ve completely ruined her night!” I bury my face in my hands, my shoulders shaking with silent, fabricated sobs.
Guests start to close in, offering platitudes. “It was an accident, dear.” “Don’t worry, Elena, it can be cleaned.”
Mark looks from me to Chloe, his jaw tight. He is furious, but I have played my part so perfectly, he cannot direct his anger at me without looking like a monster. I am the distraught, clumsy fiancée. To be angry at me now would be cruel.
“It’s alright, Elena,” he says, his voice clipped. He puts a hand on my arm, his grip a little too tight. “Accidents happen.” He turns to Chloe. “Let’s get you to the powder room. Maybe we can get some of that out with club soda.”
Chloe gives me one last look. It is a look of pure loathing. She knows. She does not know how she knows, but she feels it. She knows this was not an accident. Then her mask is back in place. She gives a wobbly, martyred smile to the onlookers.
“Really, everyone, it is fine,” she says. “The night is about Elena and Mark. This is nothing.”
She lets Mark lead her away, a murmur of sympathy following her. I watch them go, my fake sobs subsiding into hiccuping breaths. My mother is at my side instantly, wrapping an arm around me.
“Oh, you poor thing. Don’t you worry. It was an honest mistake. Chloe knows that.”
I look up at her, my eyes wide and tearful. “You think so?”
“I know so,” she says, stroking my hair. “Now, come on. Let’s get you some water.”
I allow her to lead me away from the scene of the crime. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a mirrored column. My makeup is slightly smudged from my crocodile tears. My expression is one of perfect, innocent distress.
No one suspects a thing.
But across the room, as Chloe disappears into the hallway, I see Mark look back at me over his shoulder. His eyes are narrowed. The adoration is gone. In its place is a flicker of something new. Suspicion.
A slow, cold smile touches my lips before I can stop it. I hide it behind my hand, turning it into a cough.
Let him wonder. Let them both wonder.
This was just the first drop. I have an entire ocean of chaos waiting for them.
The mask of the fiancée is heavy. But the satisfaction of seeing that first crack in their perfect world? It is the lightest thing I have ever felt.
