Chapter 3
The guests began to murmur, a rising tide of confusion and fear. Cameras on smartphones were discreetly raised, the little red recording lights blinking like small, malicious eyes in the dimming room. Caroline stood rooted to the spot, allowing the whispers to wash over her. Her breathing remained steady, a stark contrast to the Bride’s hyperventilation.
"You died," the Father stammered, tears spilling over his eyelashes, cutting through the polished veneer of his face. "The police told us there was nothing left. We buried an empty casket. We mourned you, Caroline."
"Some of you mourned," Caroline said softly, her eyes never leaving the Bride. "Others celebrated. Isn't that right, Isabella? Did you pop the vintage champagne the night the police called, or did you wait until after the funeral?"
"Shut up! Shut your lying mouth!" the Bride screamed, her face flushed red with manic fury. "Dad, she's an actress! A grifter looking for a payout! Look at her, she belongs in an asylum!"
Caroline did not raise her voice to match her sister’s. Instead, she slowly brought her hands up to her neck. Her fingers, trembling just slightly, gripped the edge of the thick white bandages wrapping her throat.
"What are you doing?" the Father asked, taking a hesitant step forward. "Caroline, please, you need medical attention. Let me help you."
"I don't need a doctor, Dad," Caroline said, her voice dropping to a harsh, raspy whisper that carried through the silent room. "I need you to look at me. I need you to see what your perfect daughter paid fifty thousand dollars to have done to me."
"Don't you dare!" the Bride shrieked, lunging forward, but the groom finally stepped in, catching her by the waist and pulling her back. "Let me go! She's lying!"
With a slow, agonizing pull, Caroline began to unwind the white bandages. The cotton tore slightly as it detached from her skin. Layer by layer, the pristine white gave way to yellowing gauze, and then, finally, the raw, unmistakable reality beneath.
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A collective gasp echoed through the ballroom. Spanning the entire width of Caroline’s neck was a deep, purple-black ligature mark, the bruised flesh broken by thin, precise lacerations from a wire garrote. It was the brutal signature of an execution that had failed.
"Do you recognize the pattern, Isabella?" Caroline asked, the calm in her voice more terrifying than any scream. "Or did the men you hired spare you the gruesome details?"
