People say a wedding night is the most beautiful moment in a woman’s life. For me, just recalling it still chills me to the bone.
I had just changed out of my gown, drained from the long day. The laughter outside faded, leaving only the wind slipping through the cracks. I expected my husband, David. Instead, the door clicked open.
It was Mrs. Lewis, the frail maid. She rushed in, shut the door, and whispered, trembling:
“Do you want to live? Change clothes and escape now—or you’ll be dead before morning!”
Her terror left no room for doubt. I threw on my clothes, followed her to the back garden, and fled into the night.
The next morning, I found her by the kitchen fire and dropped to my knees.
“If not for you, I’d already be—”
She cut me off, pulling me up.
“Don’t kneel. If anyone sees, my life won’t be spared either. But know this: this house is not what you think.”
She told me everything.
David, the only son of a wealthy family, had lost his first wife two years earlier—officially an accident. But Mrs. Lewis knew the truth: after a violent fight with David and his domineering mother, Mrs. Harper, she had been silenced forever.
Mrs. Harper saw daughters-in-law as tools—to bear heirs and transfer assets. David, charming at times, turned vicious without warning. Before my wedding, Mrs. Lewis overheard their plan:
“Marry her, drug her, make it look like suicide. Just like the last one. The shares will be ours.”
Ice flooded my veins. Without her warning, I’d already be gone.
