At our engagement gala, my fiancé’s executive assistant suggested a game of "Bizarre Wedding Blind Boxes" to kick off the night.

I reached into the silklined bowl and drew a black velvet card. I pulled the Funeral Box.

In an instant, the centerpiece of crimson roses on our table was swapped for arrangements of stark white lilies.

The vibrant red gown I had tailored over six months was replaced on the digital displays with a tailored white burial shroud.

On the main screen, my smiling face in our engagement portraits had been edited into blackandwhite.

Standing beside me in the altered photo was a tall, sharpjawed man with dark, glacial eyes.

Whitney’s manicured nail tapped against the glass of the display case. "He’s been dead for ten years," she purred, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "But I picked him out just for you.

Isn't he gorgeous?" The blood drained from my face, my pulse hammering in my ears. My voice shook, thick with rising fury. "Whitney, this is my engagement party.

What the hell is wrong with you?!" Beck stepped smoothly between us, putting a protective arm around her shoulders.

His tone was dismissive, almost bored. "Shirley, stop making a scene. Whitney was just trying to liven up the room with a little lighthearted prank.

Don't be so dramatic and ruin the night for everyone." Beside him, one of his groomsmen leaned in, whispering under his breath, "Beck, man, isn't this taking it a bit far?

Shirley’s waited seven years for this. Whitney sabotages her engagement party every single year.

Aren't you worried she's actually going to walk this time?" "Worried about what?" Beck murmured, picking up a white bloom and idly twirling it between his fingers. "She’s pushing thirty.

Who else is going to take her?" That single sentence shattered seven years of devotion, patience, and silent endurance.

Under the cruel, amused gazes of two hundred highsociety guests, I turned and walked out into the rain.

Late that night, in the quiet darkness of my bedroom, a dream pulled me under. Someone gently brushed my damp hair away from my forehead.

The man from the photograph—dressed in the same dark, bespoke suit—hovered over me. The pad of his thumb wiped a stray tear from my cheek.

His voice was low and resonant, echoing as if rising through a subterranean mist: "When I return to the living realm, I am coming to claim you as my bride." … I opened my eyes as the morning sun broke through the blinds, the dream receding like a tidal wave.

The man’s voice lingered in my mind—deep, heavy, yet searing warm against the shell of my ear. Something deep within me whispered that he was far from mortal.

A sharp chime from my phone startled me back to reality. A bank notification flashed on the screen. My account had just been credited with fifty million dollars.

The memo line contained only two words: "Bride Price." On my nightstand lay a sheet of thick crimson parchment—a traditional marriage contract.

Written in bold, commanding calligraphy were the words: "Groom: Dorian." My whole body went rigid. It hadn't been a dream.

From the hallway outside, Whitney’s softly cooing, performatively anxious voice drifted through the crack in the door. "Beck... do you think I went too far yesterday?

Is Shirley angry with me?" She paused, lowering her voice to a suggestive whisper. "People at the office are already gossiping.

They say I intentionally ruin your engagement parties every year because... because of how I feel about you..." The sentence hung in the air, weighted with deliberate flirtation.

I looked through the sliver of the doorway. Beck was leaning down, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "It’s fine," he said quietly. "People will forget in a few weeks.

Shirley isn't that petty." Seven years. For seven years, he had always been generous with my grace, offering forgiveness on my behalf for wounds he never felt.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and pushed the door open. My gaze landed on the platinum diamond engagement ring on Beck’s finger.

It had once been the beacon of everything I hoped our future would be.

I walked up to Whitney, took off the matching diamond band I had spent the night staring at, and took her hand.

I slid the platinum band onto her ring finger. "It’s always been a little too tight on me," I said, my voice steady. "It fits you perfectly." The night before the party, when I had tried it on, I mentioned it pinched my knuckle.

Beck had barely looked up from his tablet, asking, "Have you gained weight recently?" It was never a matter of size. The ring had simply never belonged to me.

Beck froze, his tone shifting into his usual patronizing humoring. "Still throwing a tantrum?

Shirley, don't be like this." That casual, throwaway dismissal snapped the last string of my selfcontrol. The humiliation of the night before rushed back.

The celebratory pink rose petals had felt like funeral confetti. The crowded ballroom had felt less like a celebration and more like a mockery arranged for my public execution.

Whitney had stood in the center of the room, beaming. "Shirley, it’s just a prank game.

You’re older than the rest of us—you ought to be a good sport." Every word a subtle reminder that I was almost thirty, the desperate woman clinging to a man who refused to lock the door.

And Beck had only offered her a mild, indulgent reprimand: "Whitney, just this once. Don't cause trouble next time." No defense. No comfort.

Not a single word spoken to protect my dignity.

Seeing the shift in my expression, Beck stepped closer, offering the same empty promise I’d heard for seven years. "Sweetheart, stop being angry. Next year, no games, no gimmicks.

I’ll marry you properly. Our actual wedding will be a thousand times grander than this." Always the same.

Soft tones, grand promises, and a distant, everreceding "next time." The first year, Whitney "accidentally" spilled red wine down the front of my gown.

Beck said, "She’s new to the firm, she doesn't know better." The second year, she falsely claimed his mother had been rushed to the emergency room right before our vows.

Beck said, "She was just worried about my family." The third year, she hired six male models to crash the reception pretending to be my exes. Beck said, "It was a joke.

Don't be so thinskinned." Year after year, the same script.

I had waited from twentythree to thirty, until people started calling me the leftover girl, while Beck couldn't even be bothered to stand up for me once.

I met the eyes of the man I had loved for seven years and spoke quietly. "Beck, if you won't marry me, I'm going to marry someone else." As the words left my mouth, a pathetic, lingering sliver of hope flickered in my chest.

I wanted him to panic. I wanted him to grab my wrist, to plead, to finally promise me something real. But the panic never came.

Beck let out a low, amused breath, looking down at me with condescending pity. "Shirley, you know how much I hate being threatened.

Seven years, seven engagement parties—when have you ever actually walked away?" I opened my mouth to tell him that this time was different.

Before I could speak, Whitney stepped forward holding a velvet jewelry box. "Shirley, I came to apologize," she said softly, opening the box to reveal a pair of modest pearl earrings. "Yesterday was my fault.

Beck already scolded me. Please forgive me." She reached out in a show of delicate reconciliation, but my eyes locked onto the solid white jade bracelet on her wrist.

I knew that handcarved pattern intimately. It was the heirloom bracelet Beck had given me as an anniversary gift years ago. It had gone missing from my jewelry box a month ago.

It hadn't been lost. He had simply given it to her.

Whitney caught my gaze, a flash of smug triumph gleaming in her eyes before she instantly put on a look of panic, reaching down as if to strip the bracelet off. "Shirley, I forgot this was yours!

I’ll take it off right now—" A cold numbness flooded my veins. I didn't reach out to catch it. I didn't want dirty things back. Her movements were frantic, exaggerated.

In the clumsy scuffle, the heavy jade slipped from her hand and slammed into the hardwood floor, shattering into sharp white splinters. A flying shard scraped across my cheek.

A thin line of red trickled down my jaw.

Beck’s eyes narrowed, his temper flaring instantly. "Shirley, haven't you had enough?!" he snapped. "I didn't even blame you when you lost that bracelet, and now when Whitney tries to return it out of the goodness of her heart, you smash it on purpose?

You’re becoming completely unreasonable!" His blind accusation crushed the absolute last remnant of my foolishness.

Without waiting for an explanation, he took the tearful Whitney by the arm and walked away.

In the silence of the empty hall, the deep voice from my dream echoed in my mind: "If you are unwilling, marry another within seven days, and the covenant will be broken." But the man I wanted to marry no longer wanted me.

I walked down the long corridor and opened the door at the very end. It was the room Beck had once designed to be a nursery.

Years ago, he had wrapped his arms around me from behind and whispered, "Shirley, we’ll have a daughter.

We’ll paint the walls pastel pink and fill a closet with tiny princess dresses." His tenderness back then had been so real, so grounded, that I had believed in it for years.

Now, the grand room was nothing more than a graveyard for seven ruined engagements.

Twentythree draft versions of custom invitations; six sets of discarded bridal portraits; champagne flutes glued back together after being knocked over; a veil stained dark with spilled Merlot...

And at the very top of the debris lay the ruined gown from yesterday, splattered in harsh white paint.

In the framed photo beside it, I stood in that ruined dress, looking small and desolate.

Beck stood half a step behind me, one hand tucked carelessly into his pocket, looking at me like an adult watching a child throw a ridiculous tantrum.

I pulled the cool, heavy crimson paper from my coat pocket. A drop of blood from the cut on my cheek fell onto the page, right over the space designated for the bride.

I didn't hesitate.

I grabbed a pen and signed my name in clear, unwavering strokes: "Shirley Perry." The moment the ink dried, the invisible chain that had bound my heart for seven years finally snapped.

That evening, Beck moved out to stay at his corporate penthouse. "Shirley, take a few days to cool off," he texted me. "Stop acting out. It’s pathetic." It was fine.

He needed to cool off, and I needed to clear out. I called a moving company to help me pack up the house that had held seven years of my life.

Memories kept bleeding through the noise. Once upon a time, Beck would kneel in public to tie my shoelace. He would pick the onions out of my food.

He would curl up with me on the bay window bench, planning a life for three. The love hadn't been fake; it had simply rotted.

While packing, I opened social media and saw an update from Whitney. The photo was a closeup of the sunlit bay window nook in my master bedroom.

A comment below asked: "Where is this?" Whitney’s reply was brief: "My future home." Those three words extinguished the final spark of warmth left in my chest.

A sudden, aggressive pounding echoed off the front door. I went to answer it, thinking it was the movers.

The moment the lock clicked, two heavy hands clamped onto my shoulders, and a rag soaked in a sweet, chemical scent was shoved over my nose and mouth.

I thrashed violently, but my limbs grew heavy.

A smooth, venomous voice drifted into my ear. "Shirley, did you really think playing the 'breakup' card would make Beck come crawling back to you?" Whitney whispered softly. "Once you’re legally bound to a dead man, Beck will never touch you again." Her words sent a jolt of terror through me.

I reached blindly into my coat pocket, pulling out the crimson paper. "I’m not trying to get him back...

I’ve already agreed to marry someone else..." Whitney let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "Marry who?

That corpse?" she sneered. "Shirley, if you're going to lie, come up with something believable.

You’ve been obsessed with Beck for seven years—how could you ever let him go?" She turned to the muscular men holding me down. "Take her." They dragged me toward an unmarked van parked in the driveway.

As I fought against the waning light of my consciousness, a familiar voice cut through the air. "Whitney? What are you guys doing?" It was Beck.

Whitney’s aggressive stance vanished instantly, replaced by her signature soft, trembling posture. "Beck! What are you doing back?

Shirley said she wants to break up with you for good and go back home to do setup dates. I was just trying to talk her out of it..." Beck didn't question her for a second.

His face hardened with cold contempt. "Let her go!" he called out coldly toward the van. "I want to see who on earth would ever marry her after this." I curled up on the floor of the vehicle, absorbing every jagged, merciless word.

The van jolted over uneven roads for what felt like hours.

When it finally stopped, the men dragged my semiconscious body into a cold, dimly lit stone hall and shoved me into a heavy, wooden coffin.

I had always been terrified of the dark, terrified of tight, enclosed spaces. From outside the heavy oak box, vulgar, muffled voices echoed. "Man, this chick is gorgeous.

Cruel as hell that she's being forced into a shadow marriage with a dead guy." "The guy’s been dead ten years anyway. He ain't gonna use her.

Might as well let us have some fun first." "Once the ceremony wrapping is done, let's pry the lid back open..." Before I could process the words, a rough, calloused hand reached into the gap of the lid, grabbing at my shoulder.

Gathering every ounce of strength left in my drugged body, I leaned forward and bit down viciously on his wrist. The taste of copper filled my mouth. The man screamed in pain.

The heavy coffin lid was shoved back with a deafening rattle. "You bitch!" A heavy blow struck the side of my face, sending fresh blood trickling down my jaw.

Hands reached in, grabbing, tearing at my clothes. An overwhelming wave of humiliation and horror threatened to break my sanity. Then, a thunderous crash shattered the air.

It sounded as if a massive structure had collapsed against the far wall.

The framed portrait of Dorian hanging above the alter slipped from its iron hooks, crashing to the stone floor.

The glass shattered into a thousand pieces, but the sharp, carved lines of his face remained intact, his faint, dark smile unbothered. "Ghost—it's a ghost!" someone shrieked.

Pandemonium erupted through the hall. "He’s alive! The guy from the picture is alive!" "It’s the underworld lord! Run!" "We were forced into this!

Please, spare us!" The men didn't even see who—or what—was attacking them. Invisible force waves slammed through the room, throwing heavy men against stone pillars.

Bones cracked; screams of agony filled the air. The lingering sedative in my blood reached its peak.

In the final second before darkness took me entirely, a cool, gentle breeze swept over my face, brushing away the cold sweat on my forehead.

A tall, broadshouldered figure knelt beside the coffin. A low, velvet voice brushed against my ear, melting away every trace of terror. "Don't be afraid.

I'm here." I forced my heavy eyelids open. Through a blurred, fading field of vision, the sharp, elegant face from my dreams came into absolute focus.

He wasn't wearing ancient robes or dark shadows. He wore an impeccably tailored modern suit that set off his commanding, athletic frame.

The emotional shock, combined with the lingering drug, dragged me under. I closed my eyes and surrendered to the dark. … At that exact moment, Beck walked back into his empty house.

An uncharacteristic knot of anxiety tightened in his chest. Usually, after any fight, he would receive a text from me by the following morning at the latest.

Sometimes a photo of breakfast, sometimes a gentle "It’s cold today, wear a heavier coat," or just a simple emoji.

He was used to that tacit rhythm—the idea that no matter how hard I cried, I would always selfsoothe and return. Today, there was nothing. The silence in the house was heavy.

His groomsmen, who had come over to watch the game, tried to break the tension. "Beck, Shirley’s stuck by you through seven engagement disasters.

All it takes is a quick phone call and a decent apology, and she’ll be back." Beck let out a cold snort, leaning back against the leather sofa with practiced arrogance. "No need.

You guys actually buy into this pushandpull game women play?" Yet even as he spoke the words, his thumb kept refreshing his phone screen.

A social media notification popped up from a mutual acquaintance. "A match made in heaven. What a breathtaking couple!" Beck’s thumb froze. What day was today?

He stared at the screen for half a second before remembering a conversation from last year.

His mother had checked the almanac and said, "This specific date next year is the luckiest day for a wedding.

Set it for then." They had set it, delayed it, canceled it, and rescheduled it through seven iterations. But today was, in fact, that exact date. He refreshed the feed again.

Another friend had posted an update filled with exclamation points: "The bride is stunning!

Absolute royalty energy!" Attached was a somewhat blurry, candid shot of a bride from a distance.

Despite the soft focus, the elegant profile, the line of the neck, the delicate jawline were unmistakably mine.

Beck stared at the photo for three full seconds, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edges of his phone. "Let’s go, let’s go!" his friends teased, catching a glimpse of his screen. "Look at you, Beck—you put on your wedding suit hours ago and pretended you didn't care!" Beck looked down at the tailored threepiece suit he had put on that morning.

A faint, triumphant smirk touched the corner of his lips. His pride was stiff, but his actions were swift.

He stood up, adjusted his silk tie, and prepared to head out—ready to offer me a graceful way down from my stance.

The moment he reached for the door handle, his phone buzzed violently. It was one of his groomsmen who had stayed behind near the city venue.

The guy’s voice was shaking, breathless with utter shock. "Beck! Who the hell is the man standing next to Shirley?!" "Isn't today supposed to be "your" wedding?!"