For weeks, she had imagined it in small, gentle flashes: the awkward laughter that comes after a long day of ceremony, the private jokes only newlyweds understand, the feeling of finally exhaling after months of planning. Nothing extravagant. Nothing cinematic. Just the comfort of closing the door and knowing the world was outside at last.
Instead, what waited on the other side of that door felt less like marriage and more like a warning.
The room itself was beautiful in the way old houses often are—dim, over-decorated, and quietly unsettling. Heavy curtains hung like theater drapes around tall windows. A carved wardrobe stood in one corner. A gilt mirror reflected the soft amber light from two bedside lamps. The bed had been prepared with ceremony: crisp sheets, embroidered pillows, and a scatter of flower petals that now looked strangely theatrical, as though the room had been staged for a performance no one had properly explained.
Lucas smiled, tired but warm, and set aside his jacket. She remembers thinking, We made it.
Then the door opened again.
