The word "Happiness" blazed red, an ironic banner against the crimson sea of the room. Red curtains, a red carpet, and red bedding seemed to throb with a forced festivity. Emma's wide, luminous eyes mirrored this intense hue, a fleeting reflection of the joyous occasion that had so violently fractured.
She sat with a fragile grace at the edge of the bed, clutching a soft, red bolster like a lifeline, her fingers twisting the fabric with nervous energy. This was her wedding day, the culmination of dreams woven with hope and breathless anticipation. She was now Mateo's wife, the man who had filled her thoughts and aspirations. A sweet warmth bloomed in her chest, tinged with the thrilling uncertainty of what lay ahead. Everything felt poised on the edge of perfection, a mirror of her long-held fantasies.
Mateo had just departed to bid farewell to the last of their departing guests, promising a swift return. A soft smile touched Emma's lips as she envisioned their shared future, the life they would build brick by loving brick. Yet, beneath the surface of her joy, a tremor of apprehension stirred. She understood the unspoken expectations of these first hours as husband and wife, a knowledge that sparked both eagerness and a shy unease. The bolster in her hands was squeezed tighter, a silent plea for composure.
Suddenly, the muffled cadence of hurried footsteps echoed from the hallway, shattering the fragile peace of her thoughts. The door flew inward with a violent thrust, and Mateo stood framed in the doorway, his chest heaving. But the flush on his face was not the rosy hue of happiness; it was a stark, angry red.
"Mateo?" Emma's voice trembled, a small island of uncertainty in the suffocating atmosphere. She offered him a tentative smile, but his eyes... his eyes were twin pools of icy fury.
"Emma," he snarled, the sound a raw accusation that ripped through the celebratory air. "Tell me the truth. Have you been doing things behind my back?"
Her heart leaped against her ribs like a trapped bird. "What? No, of course not!"
"No?" Mateo's hand plunged into his pocket, emerging with a small, damning photograph. He flung it at her, the glossy paper skittering across the red bedding. "Then what is this?"
Confusion warred with a sudden, chilling premonition. Emma picked up the photograph, her gaze locking onto the image. Her mind went blank, the vibrant room tilting on its axis.
The photograph depicted her naked, sprawled on a bed, a faceless man looming above her.
"This… this can't be..." The words escaped her lips in a barely audible whisper. It was a nightmare, a grotesque figment of a troubled sleep from which she couldn't awaken. But the image was starkly real, a tangible piece of horror staring back at her from the glossy surface.
Her breath hitched as the shadowy tendrils of a recurring dream snaked through her memory—a disturbing vision that had haunted her sleep for weeks, an encounter with a stranger, an intimacy she couldn't place. She had dismissed it as the phantom play of her imagination, but now, this photographic evidence mirrored it with terrifying accuracy. Could it have truly happened? And if so, why was her mind a blank canvas of oblivion?
Mateo's face contorted with a venomous rage, his chest rising and falling in harsh, ragged breaths as he pinned her with a look of utter disgust. His eyes, bloodshot with fury, pierced her with an unforgiving intensity.
"You’re not going to say anything? You really are guilty, aren’t you?"
"Mateo, I don't—" she stammered, her tongue thick and clumsy, the right words elusive, lost in the sudden storm of his anger and her own bewilderment.
"I thought I was marrying a pure woman. But it turns out you’re nothing but—" He choked on the words, unable or unwilling to utter the final insult, his face a mask of revulsion. He shook his head, then spat the damning words, "I won't marry someone like you. A filthy woman. Get out."
The raw cruelty in his voice sliced through her like a physical blow. Without another glance, Mateo spun on his heel and stormed out of the room, leaving Emma in a vacuum of stunned silence. Her body moved on instinct, a puppet controlled by a frayed string, her legs carrying her in a stumbling pursuit.
Downstairs, the living room buzzed with the lingering murmur of relatives and guests. A collective gasp rippled through the room as Emma stumbled into their midst, every eye a burning brand upon her. Mrs. Scarlett, her mother, rushed forward, her face etched with a desperate plea.
"Emma, tell me it's not true! Tell me someone's framed you!" she cried, her voice trembling.
Before Emma could utter a single word of denial or explanation, Elena Campbell, Mateo's sharp-tongued eldest sister, let out a cruel, derisive laugh.
"Framed? Are you serious? You've seen the picture, haven't you?"
Mrs. Scarlett whirled on Elena, her eyes blazing with maternal fury. "My Emma would never do such a thing! This has to be some kind of setup!"
Mateo’s mother, Mrs. Campbell, stood by the ornate fireplace, her face ashen with profound disappointment. Tears streamed silently down her cheeks as she shook her head, her gaze fixed on Emma with wounded disbelief.
"Emma, how could you? I trusted you. I thought you were a good girl. You've broken my heart."
"In-law, please, there must be a mistake!" Mrs. Scarlett pleaded, turning back to the Campbell family, her voice cracking with desperation. "Emma would never do something like this. You have to believe her!"
"Enough!" The deep, resonant voice of Gerald, Emma's father, thundered through the stunned silence of the room. He had remained a silent observer, his face a study in conflicted emotions, but now, the dam of his restraint had burst. His face was a mask of crimson anger and mortification.
"This is disgraceful. I can't even look at you right now. You've brought shame upon this family. I don't care where you go, but by tomorrow morning, I want you out of this house!"
Mrs. Scarlett’s face crumpled, her hand flying to her chest as a strangled gasp escaped her lips.
"Gerald, please, don't send her away! We have to give her a chance to explain!"
But Gerald was consumed by a cold, unyielding fury.
"This is your fault! You raised her to be like this, didn't you? I'm done. I'm done with this."
He turned abruptly, a storm cloud of rage propelling him toward the door.
In his blind haste, he shoved Mrs. Scarlett aside, the unexpected force sending her reeling. She lost her footing, her body crashing heavily to the polished floor. Emma's breath hitched in her throat, a silent scream trapped within as she watched her mother fall. For a frozen moment, the world held its breath.
Then the crimson stain bloomed on the pristine floorboards. Blood. Her mother's forehead was bleeding.
"Mom!" Emma shrieked, the sound raw and primal as she rushed to her mother's side. She knelt beside Mrs. Scarlett, her hands trembling as she gently shook her. "Mom, please, wake up! Don't do this to me!"
Hearing the sheer terror in Emma’s voice, Gerald froze mid-stride. He turned to witness the horrifying tableau: his wife lying motionless, a dark trickle of blood seeping from her head. His eyes widened in dawning horror, and he stumbled back toward her, his anger dissolving into a raw, desperate fear as he cradled her limp body.
"Honey, no, please, someone call 911!"
