…The thumbnail wasn’t of my fiancé, Liam, in some compromising position with another woman. It was a still frame from a hospital security camera, dated exactly two years ago—the night my wealthy father died of a sudden, unexplained “heart failure.”
I stared at the screen, the reflection of the bridal suite’s magnificent blue sea surround—a panoramic ocean view we had paid thousands for—glinting off the laptop monitor. My hands, trembling against the subtle diamond embroidery of my bodice, clicked play.
The grainy footage showed my father’s ICU room. The door opened, and Liam slipped inside, dressed in scrubs. My breath hitched as I watched the man I was supposed to marry in five minutes pull a syringe from his pocket and inject it directly into my father’s IV line. My father convulsed silently, and Liam just stood there, watching the heart monitor flatline before casually slipping back out the door.
The second video file auto-played. It was a recorded video call. Liam was sitting in what looked like our shared home office, speaking to a man I didn’t recognize.
“The old man is out of the way,” Liam’s voice crackled through the laptop speakers, devoid of any of the warmth I thought I knew. “The trust transfers to her unconditionally when she marries. Once I say ‘I do,’ the money is joint. We let the dust settle for six months, and then we arrange a tragic boating accident for the grieving bride. You get your cut, I get the estate.”
A heavy knock on the suite door made me physically violently jump.
“Sweetheart?” Liam’s voice drifted through the thick wood. Usually a comforting baritone, it now sounded like a death sentence. “The string quartet is playing your song. Everyone is waiting. It’s time.”
“Just… just a minute!” I choked out, desperately trying to steady my voice. “My zipper is stuck!”
“Do you want me to come in and help?” The doorknob rattled. He was testing the lock.
“No!” I yelled, yanking the flash drive from the USB port and clutching it to my chest. “The girls are fixing it. I’ll be right out!”
I looked frantically around the room. I couldn’t go out the main door; his groomsmen were stationed at the end of the hall. The only other exit was the balcony overlooking the crashing waves, but the drop was a sheer forty feet down the cliffside.
“Elena,” Liam’s voice dropped an octave, the charming facade slipping away. “Open the door.”
I grabbed my phone from the vanity, dialed 911, and backed away as the heavy oak door groaned under the sudden force of a violent, heavy kick. The wood began to splinter.
“911, what is your emergency?” the dispatcher answered.
“Send the police to the Ocean Crest Resort,” I whispered frantically as the door hinge snapped with a deafening crack. “The groom is a murderer, and I’m his next victim.”
