I was only fifteen years old when they dressed in white and told me I was lucky.
Everyone smiled at my wedding as if my life had turned into a fairy tale. My mother cried as she placed the veil on me, my father stood proudly by the door, and the guests congratulated me on marrying into one of the most respected families in our town.
My husband’s name was Adrian.
Wedding photography
He was twenty-one, attractive, quiet, and the only son of a wealthy family. During the ceremony, he took my hand in front of everyone, but his fingers were cold.
His mother, Margaret, watched me all night with a stern expression, as if she already knew something about me and hated me for it.
That night, after the guests had left, I sat on the edge of the bed at Adrian’s family’s house. My hands were trembling beneath the folds of my wedding dress.
I didn’t feel like a newlywed.
I felt like a terrified child.
Adrian remained by the window for several minutes before turning towards me.
—Clara —he asked in a low voice—, is there something you should have told me before today?
I felt my throat close up.
There were things I wanted to tell you. Things I’d been forced to bury for years.
But I had been warned never to speak of it. My family had taught me that what had happened to me was shameful and that telling the truth would destroy everyone around me.
Then I looked down.
Evening makeup
“No,” I whispered.
The next morning, I woke up in complete silence.
Adrian’s side of the bed was empty.
At first I thought he had gone out. I waited for him to return, but the minutes turned into hours.
Then the bedroom door opened.
Margaret was there, dressed in black, with a cold expression and cruel satisfaction in her eyes.
“Where is Adrian?” I asked.
She left.
