I hid under the bed to prank my husband on our wedding night… But when he walked in with my bridesmaid, their whispered plan turned my blood to ice.
FULL STORY:
The lace of my Vera Wang gown felt like a second skin, heavy and intricate, a masterpiece I had dreamed of since I was a little girl. My wedding day had been a whirlwind of peonies, expensive champagne, and the kind of sunlight that makes everything look like a filtered photograph. Mark, my new husband, was the man everyone envied. Handsome, a rising star in private equity, and devoted to me—or so I thought.
When we finally checked into the bridal suite of the Grand Plaza, the adrenaline of the day was still humming through my veins. “I forgot the vintage Cristal in the car,” Mark said, kissing my forehead with a smile that reached his eyes. “Stay right here. Give me five minutes.”
As the door clicked shut, a playful, childish impulse seized me. We had always been a couple that lived for pranks and laughter. I looked at the massive, king-sized bed with its gold-threaded duvet and thought, I’ll give him a wedding night surprise he won’t forget. I scrambled onto the floor, tucking my voluminous silk skirts under the mahogany frame, and slid into the darkness beneath the bed. I giggled to myself, imagining his face when I jumped out.
But five minutes passed, then ten. The silence of the room was heavy.
Then, I heard the door click. My heart raced—this was it. But the footsteps weren’t just Mark’s. There were two sets. One heavy, rhythmic; the other sharp, clicking—the unmistakable sound of stilettos on hardwood.
Through the narrow gap between the bed skirt and the floor, I saw them. Mark’s polished oxfords and a pair of glittering silver heels I had picked out myself. They belonged to Sarah, my maid of honor and best friend of fifteen years.
“Is she gone?” Sarah’s voice was sharp, devoid of the sweet tone she’d used during her toast.
“She thinks I’m getting the champagne,” Mark replied. His voice sounded different—cold, clinical. “I told her to wait, but she’s probably in the bathroom. Don’t worry, the tea I gave her at the reception had enough ‘help’ in it to knock out a horse. She’ll be dead to the world in twenty minutes.”
My breath hitched. The tea. Mark had brought me a special herbal blend during the photos, claiming I looked stressed. I hadn’t felt sleepy yet, but the realization hit me like a physical blow.
“Good,” Sarah said. I saw her silver heels move closer to the bed. She sat down right above me. The mattress creaked. “Because if she doesn’t sign the transfer for the offshore accounts tonight, the creditors are going to come for us both. I can’t keep playing the ‘supportive friend’ while she flaunts your money—my money—in my face.”
“It’s not her money anymore,” Mark snapped. He pulled out his phone and hit speaker. A third voice filled the room—a voice I recognized as Mr. Henderson, the notary who had handled my father’s estate.
“Do you have the document?” the voice on the phone asked.
“We’re getting it now,” Mark said. “She signed the primary loan paperwork last week thinking it was for our ‘dream home.’ Once she’s asleep, I’ll use her thumbprint to authorize the digital transfer of the trust assets. By tomorrow morning, the ‘unfortunate accident’ can happen, and the inheritance will be legally mine as the surviving spouse.”
“Make sure there are no traces of the sedative,” the notary warned. “The autopsy must look like a tragic wedding night heart failure. Too much excitement, perhaps.”
I felt the world tilting. The man I had promised to spend my life with, and the woman who had held my hair back when I was sick, were planning my murder in the very room we were supposed to begin our life together. The ‘dream home’ loan was actually a legal vacuum designed to suck my father’s entire legacy dry.
The silver heels stood up. “Check the bathroom,” Mark whispered. “If she’s passed out there, we start now.”
I realized then that I wasn’t just hiding for a prank. I was hiding for my life. My phone was on the nightstand, inches away from their hands. I had nothing but the cold floor and the crushing weight of a thousand-dollar dress. But as Mark headed toward the bathroom, he realized it was empty.
“She’s not here,” he growled.
“Maybe she went to find you?” Sarah suggested, her voice trembling with sudden nerves.
“No, the door was locked from the inside. She has to be in this room.”
I saw Mark’s oxfords turn slowly toward the bed. My heart was beating so loudly I was certain they could hear it through the mattress. I reached into the folds of my dress, my hand brushing against the small, decorative silver scissors I’d tucked into my garter for a tradition I’d planned later. It wasn’t much, but it was all I had.
As the edge of the bed skirt began to lift, I knew the prank was over. The real story was just beginning.