“Why did you say you’d be in the wedding?” he asks, folding his tan arms across his chest.
“What would you have liked me to say, no?”
He blinks at me like that would have been the obvious choice.
“Look,” I say, then stop, trying to find the right words. “There’s no right way to deal with this. I couldn’t have said no without me looking like a horrible person.”
“You are a horrible person,” he retorts coldly. “Find a way to get out of being in the wedding.” He glances down the hallway, his head swiveling as if to ensure we’re not being watched. Then he steps closer, his presence looming, overwhelming. He’s too close now. Way too close.
I instinctively try to lean away, but there’s nowhere to go, my back’s against the wall.
“You fucked that greasy security guard, didn’t you?” he whispers, his voice low and accusatory.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I stammer, my heart racing.
“Yeah…yeah, I think you do.” His lips curl into a cruel smirk. “I can smell it on you. I always could.”
My face burns with shame.
He leans in closer, his breath hot and sickly sweet with the scent of alcohol. “You were always like that, always needing every man’s attention. You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
I try to step away, but before I can move, his fingers press against my lips, silencing me, and he shoves me harder against the wall. His body crowds mine, his hot breath grazing my ear as he growls, "Get out of the wedding party. If you fuck this upfor me, I swear to God, I’ll make you regret it." His other hand tangles in my hair, yanking hard enough to make my eyes water.
I squirm, trying to break free, but he’s too strong, towering over me.
He releases me with a rough shove, and I stumble sideways, my scalp throbbing where he pulled my hair. “Look how you’re making me act,” he mutters, raking his hands through his hair, his face twisted with frustration. “You shouldn’t even be here with us.” He turns and strides down the hallway, leaving me trembling, my voice caught in my throat.
He’s never manhandled me like that before. I didn’t even fight back; I just let it happen. White-hot shame courses through me, and I turn, running in the opposite direction, my heart pounding wildly. The hallway blurs around me until I reach the bottom of the staircase, where the haunting portrait of Liliana looms above.
“I guess we both chose the wrong men, didn’t we?” I say, wiping a tear from my cheek. Her perfectly painted eyes seem to bore into mine, and I can almost feel her sorrow reaching out to me. “You know what? I hope you haunted the fuck out of them after what they did to you.”
I wait for some ghostly, disembodied voice to give me a reply, but silence is the only answer.
“Got any advice for me?” I ask the inanimate object. The hallway remains quiet and still. I let out a heavy sigh. “How about, don’t cry because it’s over, smile because now he’s Marissa’s problem.”
No ghostly chuckle. No strange knocking sounds. Just the quiet, indifferent stillness of the chateau.
“The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else?” I ask, thinking that’s probably the best advice for me. “Thanks for the pep talk,” I whisper.
I wander through the halls, slowly making my way toward the sounds of my friends. Their voices lead me to the sitting room, where they’re gathered around a huge television, the flickering light casting ghostly shadows across their faces. Laughter and mock screams fill the air—they’re watching a horror movie marathon, a tradition every year during these stupid weekend trips.
Jonathan and Marissa are cuddled up close, sharing a bowl of buttered popcorn, the smell of it heavy in the air.
“We already voted on which one to watch first. You don’t mind, do you?” Tessa asks, glancing up at me.
I shake my head absently, my mind elsewhere. The encounter with Jonathan and seeing Lyle again keeps replaying in my thoughts. I sit on the edge of one of the couches and stare at the screen. Each time the room bursts into laughter or gasps at a jump scare, I find myself growing increasingly distant, unable to fully engage in the fun.
Hayes leans over, his voice low and concerned. “Hey, are you okay? You’ve been off all night.”
I fake a grin, my heart heavy. “Yeah, just a bit tired. I think I’m going to head to bed early.”
“Yeah,” he nods. “I’m going to call it a night soon too. How many times can we watch the same movie?”
No one says anything as I leave.
Back in my room, I strip off my clothes, leaving on just a tank top and boy shorts, and turn off every light except the small lamp beside the bed. I crawl under the covers with a small bottle of whiskey I grabbed from the minibar, my only companion tonight. I lie on my side, staring at the wall that separates my room from Hayes’s, my eyes tracing the intricate patterns of moonlight filtering through the window.
Beside me, I spread out a stack of creepy-themed stationary I found in the room’s desk drawer. The paper is designedto look antique, with red splatters of ink to look like blood. There’s something oddly captivating about it. I start doodling absentmindedly. Marissa. Marissa’s ring. Marissa’s ring on a severed hand to match up with the fake smears of blood. It’s strangely cathartic.
