Faking Death Before The Vows

The night before our wedding, my fiancé, Damian, kissed his ex-girlfriend right in front of me. Their lips parted with a wet, deliberate sound in the dim glow of the VIP lounge. Everyone in the room froze, holding their breath, waiting for me to shatter. They expected the screams, the flying glassware, the hysterical breakdown of a bride pushed past her breaking point. Instead, I stepped forward and folded Damian’s hand over Gina’s. Because just as my fingers had curled around the edge of the mahogany table, ready to flip it, two distinct voices had torn through my skull at the exact same second. The first was Damian’s inner monologue, screaming in desperate, breathless agony: "Willa, please. Be jealous. Push her off me. Throw a fit—just make a scene, and I’ll walk out that door with you right now." The second voice belonged to an older woman. Her spectral grip locked onto my wrist like a band of frozen iron. "Don’t you dare believe it!" she hissed directly into my ear. "The thoughts you’re hearing are a lie! In the first timeline, you threw that fit. Gina ran out into the street, got crushed by a truck, and died. Damian blamed you for her death every single day for ten agonizing years. He drove Mom and Dad into oncoming traffic. He ruined Todd’s life before my brother could even finish his college entrance exams!" One voice claimed he loved me, begging me to fight for him. The other warned that he would annihilate everyone I loved, ordering me to endure. I lifted my gaze to meet Damian’s eyes. His arm was wrapped securely around Gina’s waist. The expression on his handsome face wasn’t longing or shame; it was a cold, thinly veiled disgust directed entirely at me. Yet in my head, his phantom voice kept pleading, sobbing for my jealousy like a starved dog. A quiet, terrible smile crept onto my lips. If neither voice could be trusted, then I would write my own rules. I pressed their entwined hands tighter together. "Three days isn't nearly enough," I said, my voice smooth as glass. "Why don't you let her take my place at the altar tomorrow, too?" … One of Damian’s groomsmen let out an awkward, nervous chuckle. "Hey, Willa, come on. You’re marrying Damian tomorrow. It was just a party dare. You’re not actually mad at Gina, right?" My eyes flickered toward Damian. The faint crease between his brows deepened—his signature micro-expression whenever I became an inconvenience. The blood in my veins turned to slush. The ghostly figure at my side spoke again, her breath grazing my temple. "Willa, listen to me. If you’re hearing his voice in your head, ignore every word. It’s poison. In my life, I thought I was the center of his universe. I made a scene, Gina died in the chaos, and Damian’s vengeance became a slow cancer. He made sure Dad and Mom died in a ditch, and Todd never recovered. If you want any chance of surviving, bite your tongue until the ceremony. Ruin them in broad daylight where no one can pin her blood on your hands." The phantom dissolved into the ambient air like vapor off dry ice. It felt so real my skin still prickled with cold, yet the room moved on as if nothing had happened. Gina lowered her lashes, mistaking my stillness for simmering rage. Her tone was soft, dripping with performative contrition. "Willa, please don't get the wrong idea. Damian and I ended things years ago. We only agreed to this couple-swap game because our families go back so far. It’s harmless tradition." Damian took my hand, his grip hard, almost punishing. "Don't be a buzzkill, Willa. It's just a game." Yet inside my head, his thoughts thundered: "She’s finally jealous. God, she really does care about me." "Slap Gina. Please, Willa, just slap her across the face. Prove to me that I belong to you." I kept my spine straight, the overwhelming influx of information tangling into a tight knot in my chest. Whether the phantom from ten years in the future was real, or whether this telepathic link was some bizarre psychological break, one fundamental truth stood naked before me: Damian didn’t love me. I had spent two years studying the architecture of his moods. That twitch near his jaw, the downward slant of his lips—it was pure revulsion. Gina’s eyes turned bright with unshed tears. "I’m so sorry, Willa. I shouldn't have agreed to this. Look at you, you're devastated." A tear tracked neatly down her cheek. The mood in the private suite shifted instantly. Heavy, silent judgment settled over the room like soot. Damian’s wealthy circle stared at me as if I were a shrill, insecure child ruining their high-society fun. Sniffling, Gina spun around, making a show of running toward the exit. Before she could clear the threshold, I lunged forward and caught her by the forearm. My fingers dug in hard enough to bruise. She gasped, stumbling back, staring at me in total shock. "What's the rush, Gina?" I smiled warmly. "I'm not that petty." Still holding her, I grabbed Damian’s hand and forced their palms together, weaving their fingers into a tight clasp. "It’s just three days of playing pretend sweethearts," I said smoothly. "I can handle a little fun." Damian’s jaw twitched, a flash of uncertainty cutting through his aloof demeanor. "Willa... are you serious?" "Of course," I said, tilting my head with effortless grace. "You're marrying me tomorrow. What do I have to worry about? Besides, if there were any real sparks left between you two, you would’ve tied the knot years ago. Why would I stand in the way of a little nostalgia?" The instant the words left my mouth, the voice inside my head erupted into a frenzy. "What does she mean? Does she not care anymore? How can she just stand there and let another woman play my girlfriend?" "Why isn’t she crying? Why isn’t she screaming at me? She loves me more than life itself. If she just begged, I’d drop Gina right here and never look back." "Babe, please. Don’t look at me like that. You’re scaring me." I didn't blink. Not a tear, not a trembling lip. Nothing. My utter lack of drama left Gina stranded in her own performance. She couldn't very well flee when the wounded bride was practically shoving the groom into her arms. Seeing the tension dissolve, another friend whistled. "Damn, Willa’s a saint! Since she's so cool with it, Damian, give Gina a real kiss. You two locked lips a thousand times back in the day—show us you haven't lost your touch!" Gina glanced at me, searching my face for the crack in the veneer. Finding none, she bit her lower lip, adopting an expression of fragile concern. "Willa, you're not just bottling this up to tear into Damian later, are you? If that's the case, forget it. I won't do it." Damian frowned, looking irritated by her hesitation—or perhaps by my lack of outrage. Stepping behind Damian, I placed a firm palm between his shoulder blades and gave him a gentle shove. Caught off balance, he pitched forward directly into Gina's embrace. Their lips collided. I let out an easy, musical laugh. "Why would I care? It’s only a game." The lounge exploded into cheers and catcalls. "Now that's what I'm talking about! Come on, man, give her a deep one! Don't let your fiancée down!" Damian’s hands rose to cup Gina’s cheeks. His eyes fluttered shut, his lashes casting long shadows over a gaze that pooled with undeniable, intoxicating nostalgia. He leaned down and kissed her. Deeply. Tongue and all. Around us, the noise reached a fever pitch. In the center of the storm, my knuckles turned white inside my coat pockets. I had prepared myself, but the acid still burned in my throat. Just twenty minutes ago, Damian had been the center of my universe. His phantom voice screamed again: "Why isn't she losing her mind?! She used to get upset if another woman even texted me, let alone kissed me!" "Willa, please, hit her! Tell everyone I'm your husband! You’re driving me insane!" In the past, I had indeed guarded him fiercely. I had loved him with the naive, all-consuming devotion of someone who thought love was mutual. But right now, survival took precedence. My parents were ordinary, retired schoolteachers; my brother was a promising student with his whole life ahead of him. We were normal people. We didn't have the wealth or the armor to survive the collateral damage of Damian’s family. When Damian finally pulled away, Gina’s cheeks were flushed pink. He glanced back at me, as if suddenly remembering I occupied physical space. "It was just the dare," he mumbled, though his fingers remained tightly laced through Gina’s. "You’re the one I love." "I know, honey," I replied with a sweet, placid smile. A visible wave of relief washed over his shoulders. After that, the boundaries completely dissolved. They drank from the same glass, took shots mouth-to-mouth, and traded lingering touches while the crowd roared its approval. The groomsman who had spoken earlier sidled up beside me, swirling his bourbon. "They were inseparable back in college," he murmured, his tone laced with malice. "Gina even terminated a pregnancy for him. Everyone thought they were endgame before the big fallout." He watched my profile, waiting for the flinch, the twitch of envy. I didn't give it to him. "That was a long time ago." He scoffed under his breath. "The things girls will swallow just to marry into a trust fund. To Damian, Gina will always be the standard." I sipped my seltzer and said nothing. When the party finally ended in the early hours of the morning, I trailed several paces behind them. Damian’s arm rested heavy and possessive around Gina’s waist. Outside the club, Gina spotted me and gently nudged his arm away. "Damian, stop. Your bride is right behind us. Don't leave her out in the cold—you're getting married in a few hours." Damian froze, his voice stiff. "Didn't we say we were playing the couple for seventy-two hours?" "Exactly," I chimed in brightly, walking up beside them. "Stick to the rules. Don't worry about me." The black town car pulled up to the curb. I moved toward the front passenger door, but Gina slipped in ahead of me, settling into the leather seat that had been mine for two years. Damian cleared his throat from behind me. "She always gets car sick in the back, Willa. Just take the rear seat tonight, okay?" Right on cue, the telepathic echo struck my brain like static: "Get mad, Willa! That’s your seat! Scream at me, slap me across the face!" "Why aren't you moving? You must be breaking inside." "Does she really not care anymore? Can I do anything to her now?" Under normal circumstances, I would have planted my feet and fought for my territory, desperate to prove I mattered. Tonight, I quietly pulled open the back door and slid into the leather bench without a single word of protest. In the front mirror, Gina’s smug expression wavered. She looked unsettled. Seeing how compliant I was, Damian’s tone softened as he sat beside me in the back. "Willa, once these three days are up, everything goes back to normal. You’re not harboring a grudge, are you?" "Of course not," I replied softly. "I'm just wondering what we're going to do about the ceremony tomorrow." Gina’s eyes turned glassy in the rearview mirror. "I knew it. You hate me. Pull the car over, Damian. Let me out. I won't ruin her big day." Hearing her sniffling, Damian’s irritation flared instantly. "Willa, since when did you become so passive-aggressive?" he snapped. "Spell it out. How exactly is Gina ruining our wedding?" "Yes!" the phantom voice cheered inside my head. "She’s finally cracking! She’s mad!" "Complain, Willa. Just say the word, and I'll throw Gina out into the street and end this ridiculous game right now." A chill seeped deep into my bones. The thoughts I was hearing were the exact polar opposite of Damian’s real-world actions. Damian was not a man of internal contradictions; he was arrogant, blunt, and fiercely entitled. He never said one thing and meant another. So where the hell were these thoughts actually coming from? Meeting his scowling reflection, I said gently, "I only meant that Gina should walk down the aisle in my place tomorrow. That way, you two can finish your seventy-two-hour game properly." Both Damian and Gina whipped around to stare at me in sheer disbelief. "Willa, stop talking nonsense," Damian said, his voice dropping. "I'm completely serious," I said, my gaze innocent and wide. "I know your heart belongs to me, Damian. We're already legally registered at city hall. The ceremony is just a party for other people. Missing out on one dress doesn't bother me." I sounded like the most brainwashed, spineless woman on earth. Damian looked genuinely moved, his chest swelling with self-importance. Gina, on the other hand, began breathing faster. "Every single person on the guest list knows she's the bride." "It doesn't matter," I insisted gently. "As long as the game finishes the way you want." Perhaps realizing how grotesque it would look to the press, Damian cleared his throat. "Enough. Willa is the bride tomorrow. The game will resume after the reception." The rest of the drive was buried in suffocating silence. While they sat absorbed in their petty dynamic, my mind raced. I needed to ensure this break was public, undeniable, and permanent. Only an absolute, documented severance would keep Damian’s vindictive wrath from falling upon my family. When the car pulled into the driveway of our estate, Damian hurried to open Gina’s door, escorting her up the limestone steps while I trailed behind like an afterthought. I pulled out my phone, framed their linked hands against the exterior lighting, and snapped a crystal-clear photograph. I posted it to my social feed with no caption. Within sixty seconds, the notifications began rolling in. "Congrats, you two!" "So stunning! Can't wait for tomorrow!" I typed a single reply in the public comments: "That's actually not me in the photo. That's Damian's ex, Gina. They're doing a seventy-two-hour relationship roleplay before the vows. Just helping them promote it!" A minute later, heavy footsteps slammed down the stairs. Damian stormed out into the foyer, his phone clutched in his hand. "Willa! What the hell is wrong with you? What did you just post?!" Gina scurried behind him, dabbing at her eyes. "Willa, why are you doing this? Why did you sneak a photo of us and blast it on your feed?" Yet beneath the theatrics, I caught the briefest glint of satisfaction in her eyes. The voice rang out again: "Finally! The fire's back. I knew she loved me too much to let this slide." "Rage all you want, baby. The louder you scream, the safer I feel." Suspicion coiled like a viper in my stomach. Damian seized my wrist, his grip bruising. "Explain yourself! Stop playing these deceitful little games. You know I despise dramatic jealousy." He used to claim he found my possessiveness endearing. Now, he simply couldn't bear to see Gina look bad. "I was only trying to help," I said, letting a tremor bleed into my voice. "If everyone knows you're just acting out a game, no one will be surprised when Gina stands beside you at the altar tomorrow." Damian stiffened. "You idiot. Do you have any idea how that looks for Gina? People are going to call her a homewrecker!" I let the tears spill over. "I'm sorry. I didn't think..." Seeing my tears, his scowl softened slightly, though his impatience lingered. "Delete the post. Now." I nodded obediently, tapping my screen to delete it, then posted a follow-up saying it was all a bad joke. Gina stood frozen in the corner, clearly panicked. This wasn't how the script was supposed to go. Where was the public slap? Where was the unhinged bridal rage? "Gina," I said, wiping my cheeks, "it's late. You two take the master suite tonight. Since you're a couple for the weekend, it only makes sense." Damian waved an irritated hand. "No need. We don't have to take it that far." "Okay," I whispered obediently. After barely three hours of fitful sleep, the styling team arrived to pull me out of bed. My parents arrived shortly after, fluttering around the bridal suite with nervous, proud smiles. My younger brother, Todd, pulled me aside near the window. "Willa, what was that post last night? And what's going on with the files you sent me?" I gripped his hand tightly. "Do exactly what I wrote in the instructions, Todd. But whatever happens out there, your only job is to keep Mom and Dad calm. Understand?" The ceremony began. The chapel was draped in white lilies and pale satin. When the music swelled, Gina stepped forward as part of the party, tasked with presenting the wedding rings. As she approached the altar, the glances traded between her and Damian were electric—heavy with unspoken history, mourning what could have been. It was almost comical. If they were this obsessed with each other, why drag me into their tragic romance? The voice echoed in my skull once more: "What is she thinking? She's watching Gina hand over the rings and she's not even flinching? Did she stop caring the second she got my ring on her finger?" "Willa, scream. Please. I brought my ex to give you your ring—how can you ever show your face in this town if you don't fight back?" I kept my breathing steady and subtly shifted my eyes toward the massive digital displays flanking the altar. Right on cue, the romantic slideshow flickered out. In its place, a high-definition video began to play. It was the footage from last night's party. Damian’s hands cupping Gina’s face. Their tongues tangling in a desperate, breathless kiss while the crowd cheered—and me, standing just two feet away, holding my coat. A collective gasp sucked the air out of the cathedral. Whispers cascaded through the pews like a brushfire. I buried my face in my hands, letting out a choked, shattered sob. "You said... you said it was just a private dare! You promised you wouldn't humiliate me on our wedding day!" Damian turned pale as ash, completely ambushed. Gathering the heavy skirts of my gown, I turned and bolted down the aisle as if my mind had snapped under the weight of the betrayal. "Willa! Wait!" Damian broke away from the altar, sprinting after me. I burst through the cathedral doors and down the grand stone steps toward the busy avenue. Behind me, Damian was screaming my name. At the bottom of the steps, a black sedan came tearing around the corner. It plowed straight into me. The world shattered into blood, screams, and white silk. My parents shrieked in terror, rushing toward the street.