The Man Who Married My Sister

The chapel bells tolled like ghosts refusing to sleep.

Alora Dane stood at the edge of Saint Delphine's aisle, her breath snagging against the silk corset laced too tight, her heels a half size too small, and her heart straining behind layers of denial. The vintage lace veil floated over her face like a cobweb trying to trap what was left of her pride. Everything was perfect-except the groom.

Jeffrey Ashcombe was nowhere to be found.

The air hung thick with tension and Chanel perfume. Guests whispered, some craning their necks to look back at her. Her mother clutched a pearl necklace as if trying to summon divine intervention. Alora's father, stoic and red-faced, paced behind the priest like a banker watching his stocks collapse. Her younger cousin from the city had already posted something on social media-she could tell by the faint chime of a phone from the back pew.

The bridal quartet stumbled to a halt, their violins falling into a confused hush. Father Marcus cleared his throat awkwardly.

Still, no Jeff.

Still, no explanation.

Still, no movement from the heavy oak chapel doors that seemed to mock her with their stillness.

Alora refused to cry.

She wasn't the crying type. At 27, she'd been through enough to know tears only made you look weak-and weakness was a luxury she couldn't afford, not with her family watching. Not with the Ashcombes-the richest family in Cape Raven-looming in judgment. And certainly not with the ghost of her estranged sister still haunting this town.

Twenty Minutes Earlier.

He sent a text.

"Forgive me. I can't do this. I never should've let it get this far."

She read it three times as the makeup artist powdered her jaw. Her hands trembled, and the stylist mistook it for pre-wedding jitters.

"Deep breaths, Alora," the woman cooed. "You're about to marry the man of your dreams."

No. She was about to lose him. Again.

The same way she'd lost everything.

She knew this. Born into a house that looked like it belonged in a Jane Austen novel-vine-choked, grand, emotionally vacant-Alora had learned that silence was a language. Her mother spoke it fluently. Her father used it like a weapon.

But even she hadn't seen this coming.

Not until a photo began circulating twenty minutes after she fled the altar. It was forwarded by a bridesmaid with trembling fingers and an open mouth.

"Alora... I think you need to see this."

It was a blurry picture of a courthouse. In it, Jeffrey stood beside someone in a champagne dress, holding her hand like it was his anchor.

Her sister.

Faye.

The same Faye who had left home six years ago without saying goodbye. The same sister who once promised to run away together and ended up vanishing instead. And now-back from the dead, it seemed-wearing a smug grin and a wedding band.

The headline under the picture on the town gossip page read:

"ASHCOMBE WEDS IN SECRET CEREMONY-BRIDE ISN'T WHO YOU THINK."

Back in the Chapel

Alora didn't scream. She didn't faint. Instead, she walked-slowly, fiercely-down the aisle. Each step echoed like gunfire in the stone sanctuary. The whispers stopped.

She paused at the exit, then turned to face the congregation.

"I thank you all for coming," she said, her voice steady but sharp as flint. "The wedding is off. I'm sure you'll hear why soon enough."

And with that, she lifted the veil from her face like peeling off a lie-and walked into the blistering sun of June.

As Alora stepped into the black limo, her phone buzzed again.

"You deserve the truth, but you'll never hear it from Jeff. Meet me tonight. Just you. No questions."

-Faye

Alora read it once. Then again. And smiled.

It wasn't a kind smile.

It was a declaration of war.