Elena Avalor
I should've known something was wrong when my wedding dress zipped too quietly.
There were no cheers, no bridesmaids squealing in excitement. Just my mother, quietly adjusting the sleeves while pretending not to cry.
She didn't say much. She hadn't, ever since Madeline paid her another visit the week before — this time with cameras, with threats, with reminders that poverty doesn't mix with pedigree.
Still… she helped me zip up the dress like a good mother should.
"Smile, baby," she whispered, smoothing my hair. "Let them see you shine, even if they never accept it."
I smiled. For her.
The wedding was grand.
Everything sparkled. Chandeliers, violins, imported flowers, rich guests with teeth too white and laughs too sharp.
Logan looked stunning — black tux, clean cut, eyes bright. And when I walked down the aisle, I let myself believe…
Maybe it would be okay.
Maybe love would be louder than power.
Maybe he would choose me, truly.
He smiled when I reached him. He squeezed my hand like he meant it.
But behind him… her eyes burned through me.
Madeline Hunter sat tall, regal, cold.
She didn't cry.
She didn't smile.
She didn't move — not until the priest said "Speak now or forever hold your peace."
And then?
She coughed.
Just a little cough.
But enough to make the room feel like ice.
We said our vows.
Logan kissed me.
Everyone clapped.
But that moment… that cough… it never left my mind.
That night, I sat beside him in our honeymoon suite, barefoot, staring at the floor.
"Do you think she'll ever love me?" I asked.
Logan was quiet. "My mom just… she has expectations."
"I know," I whispered. "And I keep failing them."
He touched my cheek gently. "You didn't fail. You're my wife now. That's all that matters."
But it wasn't.
Because being a wife doesn't protect you from a war you didn't start.
And love isn't armor when the enemy is your husband's own blood.
Two months later
I stopped going to the Hunter house.
Every visit ended the same — silent judgment, backhanded comments, Logan brushing it off, me holding back tears.
So I stopped.
But that didn't stop her.
Madeline sent me gifts I never asked for — "corrections," she called them.
New designer shoes: "Yours are making noise when you walk."
A book on etiquette: "Just something to help you catch up."
Whitening strips: "Photo day is coming."
I stopped opening the packages.
Logan grew busier. Longer hours. More meetings. Less laughter.
And when he did come home, he was tired. Quiet. Cold.
I asked him once, "Are you happy?"
He looked at me and said, "Of course. You're my wife."
That was the moment I knew he didn't hear me anymore.
A month later
He missed dinner with my parents.
I cooked. I dressed up. I waited.
He never came.
I called him — no answer.
I called Madeline — her voice was all sugar and poison.
"Oh," she said. "Logan's at a networking dinner. Important connections. I assumed he told you."
"He didn't," I said softly.
Silence.
"Well… communication is something you'll both need to work on," she replied.
I hung up.
And cried at the table alone.
One week later
Sierra Blake came for lunch.
Uninvited.
She was graceful, glowing, polite. She brought Logan's favorite wine.
"Madeline asked me to check on you," she said sweetly. "She's worried you're feeling overwhelmed."
I smiled like I didn't want to scream.
"I'm fine."
She tilted her head. "You're very strong, Elena. That's admirable."
She left an hour later.
Left her perfume behind.
Left her presence in my home.
That night, I stared at Logan while he slept.
I wondered who he belonged to now — me… or the woman who never let go of his spine.
He said he loved me.
He still kissed me sometimes.
But his soul?
That belonged to her.
Present Day — Elena Stone
I sat in my penthouse, heels off, glass of wine untouched.
Dominic paced slowly beside the window, reading over the newest investor documents. He stopped, glanced at me.
"You've been quiet since the Hunter file came back up."
I nodded. "Just remembering."
"Want to stop?"
"No," I whispered. "I want to remember every bit of it."
He walked over and placed the file on my lap.
It was thick. Numbers. Names. Board meetings. HunterTech's new campaign.
They were trying to save their sinking ship.
Too late.
I smiled.
"You had your wedding," I whispered. "Now I'll plan the funeral."