Chapter 8 - Walking the PlankThe heavy oak doors swung open wider as a wedding coordinator peeked inside, looking nervous.
"Mr. Vance? Clara? It's time. Everyone is seated. You're up."
Julian felt a strange, numb calm wash over him. The panic receded, replaced by the cold, hollow mechanical rhythm of a man walking to his execution. He looked once more at the mahogany wardrobe. The wood was still, save for a faint, rhythmic shudder as Eleanor struggled silently against her ropes within.
"I'm ready," Julian said quietly.
Clara beamed, her radiant bride persona snapping back into place instantly like a well-rehearsed mask. She fluffed her veil, linked her arm through Julian’s rigid elbow, and smiled up at him with sickening adoration.
"Let's go get married, darling," she whispered.
As they stepped out of the bridal suite and walked down the long, sunlit corridor toward the glasshouse, the weight of the mahogany box seemed to follow them every step of the way. The guests rose to their feet as the doors opened, gasping at the breathtaking beauty of the bride and the striking, albeit pale, elegance of the groom.
May you like
Flashbulbs popped. Cameras whirred.
Julian stood at the altar, the flower-adorned arch framing the bright blue summer sky behind him. He watched Clara glide down the aisle toward him, looking like an angel descending from heaven. But as she reached his side and placed her hand in his, he knew he was holding hands with the devil herself.
