Chapter 1 The Sacrificial Bride
# Chapter 1: The Sacrificial Bride
I never imagined my wedding day would feel like a funeral.
As I stood before the mirror in a designer gown worth more than my apartment, the irony wasn't lost on me. Vanessa Mitchell, struggling fashion designer, about to marry a man who had never spoken a word to me. A man who, according to his doctors, might never speak again.
"Five minutes, Miss Mitchell." The stern-faced housekeeper rapped on the door, her voice as cold as the marble floors of the Allen estate.
I nodded, though she couldn't see me. My fingers trembled as I adjusted the veil—imported lace, they'd told me, as if that mattered. As if anything mattered beyond the astronomical figure that had been deposited into my account this morning. Money that would save my brother's life.
"You can do this," I whispered to my reflection. "For Jacob."
Three months ago, my brother had collapsed during his shift at the coffee shop. Stage four lymphoma, the doctors said. Experimental treatment available, they said. Costs more than you'll make in a decade, they didn't need to say.
Then came the offer from the Allen family lawyer.
"A marriage of convenience," Mr. Peters had explained, sliding the contract across my kitchen table. "Mr. Allen's son, Darren, suffered a traumatic brain injury last year. The doctors believe a stable home environment might aid his recovery."
"You want me to marry a man in a coma?" I'd asked, incredulous.
"Mr. Allen is not technically comatose. He's in a persistent vegetative state, but shows minimal signs of awareness. The family believes in certain... traditions. A wife might bring good fortune."
Good fortune. As if I were some kind of lucky charm.
"And in return?" I'd asked, though I already knew.
"Full coverage of your brother's medical expenses. Plus a generous stipend."
I'd signed my name before he finished speaking.
The music swelled outside my door, signaling it was time. I made my way through the Allen mansion—my new home, supposedly—toward the garden where two hundred strangers waited to witness our union.
The ceremony was a blur. I walked down the aisle alone, toward a man in a wheelchair. Darren Allen. Heir to the Allen Financial Empire. Thirty-two years old. Dark hair, aristocratic features, expensive suit that couldn't hide how thin he'd become. Eyes open but vacant.
His father, Maxwell Allen, stood beside the wheelchair, his face impassive as stone.
As I took my place beside my soon-to-be husband, I felt like I was auditioning for a role in some twisted play. The priest spoke, the guests murmured appropriate responses, and I said "I do" to a man who couldn't say it back.
Then came the moment for the ring. The nurse gently lifted Darren's limp hand, and I slid the platinum band onto his finger.
That's when it happened.
His index finger twitched. Just once, but unmistakably. I gasped, meeting his eyes—and for a split second, I could have sworn I saw something there. Recognition? Awareness?
"Did you see that?" I whispered to the nurse.
She smiled politely. "Muscle spasms are common, Mrs. Allen."
Mrs. Allen. The name felt foreign, like clothes that didn't fit.
The reception was worse than the ceremony. I smiled until my face hurt, accepting congratulations from people who knew this marriage was a sham. Maxwell Allen's business associates, mostly. Men in expensive suits who looked at me with barely disguised curiosity.
"Such a selfless young woman," they said to my face.
"Gold digger," they whispered behind my back.
By midnight, I was exhausted. The staff showed me to my room—separate from Darren's, thankfully. His medical suite was on the first floor, while I'd been given a bedroom on the second. Small mercies.
I collapsed onto the bed, not bothering to remove my makeup. Sleep came instantly, pulling me under like a riptide.
I'm not sure what woke me. A sound? A feeling? My eyes flew open in the darkness, heart hammering. The digital clock read 3:17 AM.
That's when I felt it. Warm breath on my neck.
I froze, terror paralyzing me. Someone was in my room. Someone was leaning over me.
Instinct told me to keep still, to feign sleep. Through slitted eyes, I saw a silhouette beside my bed. The moonlight through the window caught the gleam of a wheelchair.
Impossible.
Warm lips pressed against my neck, lingering for a moment that stretched into eternity.
When they finally pulled away, I couldn't contain myself anymore. I sat bolt upright, switching on the lamp.
"Darren... are you faking it?"
The room was empty.
My hand flew to my neck, fingers tracing the spot where I'd felt those lips. Had I dreamed it? The wheelchair tracks on the plush carpet suggested otherwise.
I stumbled out of bed, following the tracks to the door. It was closed but unlocked. My hands shaking, I pulled it open and peered into the darkened hallway.
Nothing.
I closed the door and leaned against it, my mind racing. The man I'd married was supposed to be essentially comatose. Minimal brain function. Unable to move independently. Certainly unable to navigate a wheelchair up a flight of stairs to my bedroom.
Yet here were the tracks. And the lingering sensation of lips on my skin.
I sank to the floor, hugging my knees to my chest. What had I gotten myself into? The money was already spent—the first installment of Jacob's treatment had begun yesterday. I was trapped in this marble mausoleum with a man who might not be as helpless as everyone believed.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from Jacob: "How's married life?"
I stared at the screen, unsure how to respond. How could I tell my brother that my vegetative husband might have just kissed me in my sleep? That I was beginning to think this "marriage of convenience" was anything but?
I typed back: "Interesting. Rest well. Love you."
Setting the phone down, I made a decision. Tomorrow, I would investigate. If Darren Allen was faking his condition, I would find out why.
And if he wasn't—if I was losing my mind—well, that was a problem for another day.
As I crawled back into bed, I couldn't shake the feeling that somewhere in this massive house, a pair of eyes was watching me. Waiting for me to fall asleep again.
I left the light on until dawn.
