Chapter 2 - The Empty Suite
The heavy oak door of the bridal suite slammed shut, locking automatically behind her, but the sound was nothing compared to the metaphorical door Christopher had just slammed in her face. Clara ripped the delicate veil from her red hair, the pins tearing free and scattering across the polished hardwood floor. She kicked off her heels, the ivory pumps flying across the room to crash against the baseboard.
"Open the damn door!" Clara yelled, pounding her fist against the wood until her knuckles stung.
There was no answer from the hallway. Just the muffled sounds of the wedding guests dispersing, chairs scraping against stone, and the low murmur of scandalized gossip drifting through the heavy glass windows. They were packing up. The hundred-thousand-dollar wedding, funded entirely by Clara’s savings from her graphic design firm, was being dismantled before the canapés had even been served.
Clara paced the length of the suite, her chest heaving. The pale yellow dress, chosen because Christopher had once casually mentioned how much he loved yellow sundresses, now felt like a straitjacket. She reached around to find the zipper, yanking it down with a harsh rasp of fabric. She peeled the dress off, dropping the expensive lace into a crumpled heap on the floor, standing in her satin slip.
Her phone buzzed on the vanity table. Clara lunged for it. The screen lit up with a text message from an unknown number: Your things are being moved to the gatehouse. Do not attempt to contact Christopher or his family.
Clara’s fingers flew across the keyboard. Who is this? Christopher, pick up your phone. This is insane!
No reply. She hit dial, holding the phone to her ear. It went straight to voicemail. She tried again, and again, the automated carrier voice becoming a taunting refrain.
"Think, Clara, think," she muttered to herself, pressing her palms against the cool glass of the vanity mirror. How had a key ended up in her cosmetic case? She retraced every movement from the morning. She had arrived at eight. Hair and makeup until ten. Sarah had arrived with the coffee at ten-thirty. Then—wait.
There had been a knock at the door around eleven. A resort staff member in a gray uniform claiming there was a plumbing issue in the bathroom next door and needing to check the pipes. Clara had let him in, gone back to her mirror, and paid him no mind while he fiddled with the sink for five minutes. He had carried a large leather tool bag.
Clara’s breath caught. The cosmetic case had been sitting right on the counter, unzipped.
She grabbed her handbag from the chair, dumping the contents across the table. Wallet, keys, lipstick, breath mints, and a folded piece of hotel stationery she didn't remember putting there. Her hands shook as she unfolded the heavy paper. Inside, written in neat, block capital letters, was a single sentence: The wedding was never the destination, Clara. It was the trap.
Before she could process the cryptic warning, a sharp knock echoed at the suite door. Not Christopher. A heavy, official rap.
"Miss Vance?" a deep voice called out from the corridor. "Hotel security. Please open the door."
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Clara swallowed hard, her heart hammering against her ribs as she walked slowly toward the handle, wondering what new nightmare was waiting on the other side.
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