The wedding guests would later say the bride looked beautiful.

Nobody mentioned the blood beneath her nails.

Gold chandeliers illuminated the grand ballroom while violins played softly in the background. Diamonds glittered. Politicians laughed. Cameras flashed.

The wedding was the event of the year.

And Sia sat at the center of it all dressed like a goddess prepared for sacrifice.

Heavy crimson lehenga.
Emeralds dripping from her throat.
A smile sharp enough to wound that held hidden motives.

Across from her stood the groom.

Not Aarav.

The priest continued chanting sacred vows while the city’s elite watched with admiration, unaware that the bride’s fingers were trembling beneath her bangles.

Not from nervousness.

From restraint and the thrill of getting one step closer to her goal.

“Miss Malhotra,” the priest said warmly,
“please extend your hand.”

Sia obeyed slowly.

The groom reached for her with eager fingers.

And that was when the ballroom lights died.

Darkness swallowed everything.

Gasps erupted instantly.

Someone screamed.

Then—

A single spotlight flickered on.

Not on the stage.

On the massive white wedding screen behind them.

Static crackled across it.

The guests turned in confusion.

Sia stopped breathing.

Because the footage playing on the screen was seven years old.

Rain.

A wrecked car.

A girl covered in blood.

Her.

The ballroom descended into horrified silence as the recording continued shakily, like someone had filmed it in secret.

Young Sia cried violently on-screen, hands trembling, white clothes soaked scarlet while a body lay motionless beside her.

Then came the voice.

Distorted.

Male.

“Look at me, Sia.”

The girl in the video lifted her head slowly.

And every guest in the ballroom froze.

Because the sweet, innocent girl on-screen smiled.

Not sadly.

Not fearfully.

But with terrifying calm.

Then she picked up a knife.

Present-day Sia stood abruptly from the mandap, breathing unevenly as whispers exploded around her.

“What is this—?”

“Is that her?”

“Oh my God—”

The groom stumbled backward in horror.

“No…” he whispered.

The screen glitched again.

Then another frame appeared.

A date.

Tonight’s date.

Underneath it, written in dripping red letters:

YOU LOOKED PRETTIER COVERED IN BLOOD

The ballroom doors slammed shut.

Women screamed.

Security guards rushed forward—

And suddenly every chandelier shattered at once.

Glass rained from the ceiling.

Chaos erupted.

The entire hall froze.

Sia’s stomach dropped.

No.

No.

Only one person would write something like that.

The ballroom doors opened behind her.

Heavy. Slow. Deliberate.

Every guest turned.

Aarav Vashisht walked inside like the devil arriving late to a ceremony meant for God.

Black suit.
Black gloves.
Rainwater sliding down his throat.

Fear spread through the room instantly.

People moved aside without thinking.

Because men like Aarav did not enter peacefully.

They arrived like warnings.

His eyes found Sia immediately.

Not her fiancé.
Not the guests.
Only her.

Sia stared back, breathing unevenly.

“You did this,” she whispered angrily.

Aarav tilted his head slightly, almost amused.

Then his gaze drifted toward the screen displaying her bloodstained younger self.

“I hated seeing you in white,” he said softly.

The room went deathly quiet.

The groom stepped forward angrily.
“What kind of sick—”

Aarav looked at him once.

Only once.

And suddenly the man couldn’t continue speaking.

That was the terrifying thing about Aarav Vashisht.

Violence followed him so naturally it no longer needed permission.

Sia walked down from the mandap slowly until she stood inches away from him.

“You ruined my wedding.”

A faint smile touched Aarav’s mouth.

“You were about to ruin my life.”

Her breath caught.

The projector flickered one final time.

Then another sentence appeared across the screen:

SEVEN YEARS, SIA.
AND YOU STILL BELONG TO ME.

Then his phone rang.

In the dead silence, the sound echoed sharply.

Aarav answered without taking his eyes off Sia.

“Bol.”
(Speak.)

A voice crackled from the other side.

“Sir… another body was found.”

A pause.

Then quietly—

“The victim’s chest has her name carved into it.”