Eliana screamed, slamming her fists against the locked chamber door.
She was trapped.
The ghostly bride stood still, unmoving, inches from her. No sound, no breath—just that heavy, eerie silence that pressed into Eliana's lungs like smoke.
Then, the bride raised her hand.
And pointed to the far wall.
The candles flickered again—relighting as if summoned.
In their glow, Eliana saw what the bride wanted her to see: a portrait.
Dust-caked, cracked by time.
It was her.
No—not her. Not exactly. But the woman in the painting shared her face.
Same eyes. Same jaw. Same dimple near the mouth.
"Eliza Sinclair," the brass nameplate beneath it read. "Born 1874. Died 1896."
Eliana's breath hitched. "That's not possible."
The ghost finally spoke, voice brittle as dried rose petals. "He said I'd be the last. But he lied. There is always another."
"Who are you?" Eliana whispered.
The bride stepped closer, the veil lifting slightly in a breeze that had no source.
And beneath it, Eliana saw the truth.
It was her face. The same face in the mirror. The same face in the portrait. But bruised, eyes hollowed, lips stitched closed with thread.
Eliana backed away, heart hammering in her ribs like it was trying to escape.
"I'm you," the ghost said. "The first version they buried. The one who remembered too much."
And just like that, she vanished.
The door creaked open.
Adrien was waiting on the other side, pale and shaken. "Eliana, I heard screaming—"
She shoved past him. "Don't."
"Eliana—"
"You knew about her," she snapped. "You knew I looked just like her. Like the one they called Eliza. What am I, Adrien? A reincarnation? A clone? A plaything for whatever madness your family worships?"
"I don't know!" he shouted. "I don't know what this is anymore!"
She froze.
That was the first time he'd lost control. The first time he wasn't trying to protect her with silence or soften the truth.
He looked broken. Torn between guilt and desperation.
"I only know one thing," he said more quietly. "I loved you once. And I love you still."
"You don't even know who I am," she whispered.
Adrien stepped closer. "Maybe not. But I know what I feel when I look at you. And that's more real than anything else in this cursed house."
—
That night, Eliana locked herself in the library.
Not to read—but to search. To dig. To remember.
She tore through dusty genealogy books, old letters, records dating back two hundred years.
Page after page, generation after generation—until she found it.
A scandal buried beneath euphemisms and faded ink.
A young woman named Eliza. Engaged to a Sinclair heir. Found dead in her wedding dress. Cause of death: unknown. Body: missing.
And beside the entry, a faded photo.
Eliza Sinclair.
Same face.
Her face.
Eliana dropped the book.
A voice echoed softly from behind the bookshelf.
"She was the first one who didn't obey. So they erased her."
Celeste.
The matriarch emerged from the shadows, dressed in her usual funeral-black satin.
"They made the family promise—never again. But you appeared, and the resemblance was too strong. And Henry… your husband-to-be… saw something more."
"My what?" Eliana blinked.
Celeste tilted her head. "Didn't you wonder why he changed the will? Why he begged Adrien to protect you?"
She walked toward Eliana slowly.
"You weren't just some stranger. You were Henry's final redemption. His confession."
Eliana's voice cracked. "What did he do?"
Celeste's smile didn't reach her eyes.
"He was the last to see Eliza alive."
—
In the hallway outside, Adrien listened to every word.
His hands trembled.
He remembered a memory he'd buried for years: a little girl with dark curls and haunted eyes, hiding under the rose bushes, whispering to no one.
A girl who disappeared for days—and returned with no memory.
Eliana.
Or was it Eliza?
—
The next morning, Eliana awoke to a knock on her door.
A maid, silent and trembling, handed her an envelope.
Inside: a wedding invitation.
From Henry Sinclair.
Dated two years ago.
The bride's name: Eliana Rowe.
And scrawled in handwriting at the bottom:
"She said yes once. Let her remember why."