The Bride's Dark Secret

From the back cover

Our wedding, live-streamed to millions, was meant to be my perfect future with the radiant Veronica.

She was my salvation, helping me move past my "psycho ex," Clara Evans, who had supposedly clung to me pathologically.

But then, from inside the grand piano, Clara's worn journal slipped to the floor.

"What trash is that doing here?" I spat, kicking it away, reinforcing the narrative Veronica had perfected.

The Event MC, David, picked it up, announcing the first entry: lyrics to Veronica's signature song, "Faded Embers," dated years before she claimed it.

Veronica’s tinkling laugh felt suddenly hollow.

I stepped in, defending her, pointing out a prep school melody only "we" would know, further solidifying Clara’s image as a delusional liar online.

But David turned the page, reading Clara’s secret high school entries about me.

"I think 'Faded Embers' is almost finished. It’s for him."

Dated years before Veronica and I even met, before I "officially" knew Clara.

My certainty wavered.

This wasn’t the Clara Veronica had painted; this was a girl who admired me from afar, a pure unrequited love.

The words continued, detailing Veronica's open cruelty: discarded gifts, her chilling taunt “You don’t belong here, street rat,” and the unimaginable horror of Clara’s 19th birthday.

"He never believed me. He never asked," Clara had written.

I swayed, remembering my cold judgmental rage, Veronica’s calculated comfort.

A knot of sickening realization tightened in my gut.

The lights flickered, a crystal glass cracked, an ominous sign.

This wasn't a wedding anymore; it was a reckoning.

And I, Ethan Cole, was just beginning to realize the monstrous truth about the woman I was marrying, and the horrific injustice I had enabled.