The heavy satin of the wedding dress felt like a suffocating shroud, even the delicate lace scratchy against the skin. Still standing here, hours after the party ended, felt utterly ridiculous. Four in the morning. Four. The nerve of that bastard.

Lisa paced slowly across the opulent, dimly lit room, the train of the pristine white gown trailing behind her like a mournful cloud. The tiara felt cold against her forehead, a mocking symbol of a vow that was already broken. Her hands, clasped tightly in front of her, kept smoothing the fabric over her hips, a nervous habit she couldn't shake. The air was thick with the scent of stale champagne and lingering perfume—the ghosts of a celebration that wasn't hers. Her dark eyes, usually expressive, were now narrowed into slits of simmering frustration and deep-seated fear.

"What a night" she sighed when she heard the door knob move