The wedding night is often painted as the most blissful moment in a woman’s life. I sat at the vanity, lipstick still flawless, while the distant beat of drums faded into silence. My husband’s relatives had all retired.
The bridal chamber glittered with red silk ribbons glowing in golden light. Yet my chest felt heavy, a gnawing dread settling in.
A gentle knock startled me. Who would come at such an hour?
I cautiously opened the door a crack and met the frightened eyes of the old maid who had served the family for decades. Her whisper trembled:
“If you want to survive, change clothes and slip out the back door now. Don’t hesitate, there’s no time.”
I froze, blood pounding in my ears.
Before I could answer, she widened her eyes and raised a finger to her lips. That look was no jest. Terror surged through me, my hands shaking against the fabric of my gown.
And then I heard the sound of footsteps—my new husband’s—drawing near.
Panic overtook me. I tore off the wedding dress, shoved it beneath the bed, slipped into plain clothes, and followed the maid. The chill of the back alley cut through me as she opened an old gate and urged me to run.
Her voice faded behind me:
“Straight ahead. Don’t turn back. Someone will be waiting.”
I ran until my lungs burned.
Under a dim streetlamp, a motorbike idled. A middle-aged man pulled me onto the seat and sped through the night. Clutching his jacket, tears streamed uncontrollably.
Nearly an hour later, we stopped at a small house on the outskirts.
The man guided me inside, murmuring: “Rest here. You’re safe now.”
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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