The day she put on her white wedding dress, the world around her faded into a cold, lifeless gray.
There were no blessings. No warm smiles from loved ones. And certainly, no tender gaze from the groom.
Only her footsteps echoed quietly, heavily, down the grand, empty hall.
"Linh Nguyet, please walk down the aisle."
The mechanical voice echoed through the speakers, stabbing into her chest like a blade of ice. There was no one to escort her, no music, no flying petals — just a perfunctory ceremony held in haste, like a business transaction wrapped up in a white veil.
The groom, Luc Trac, stood at the end of the aisle. Tall and well-built, he wore a sleek black suit. But a thin veil covered his face, hiding all expression.
From the moment the ceremony began until the last guest left, he said nothing. No vows. No signatures. No ring. He didn't even look at her.
And when the ceremony ended, he was the first to leave.
People called Luc Trac strange. Wealthy, handsome, but cold and mysterious. For years, no one truly knew where he was or what he was doing. Some claimed he lived overseas. Others whispered he had vanished. Some even said… he was dead.
Three women had once been engaged to him. All three died suddenly under mysterious circumstances.
And now she, Linh Nguyet, was the fourth.
She knew she was merely a pawn in a transaction between her parents and the Luc family — a daughter traded for enough money to save a crumbling company. But she never expected the price to be this terrifying.
The old mansion sat at the edge of the city, far from any neighborhood. A long stone path led from the gate to the house, flanked by wild overgrown grass that swallowed the way.
Linh Nguyet stood at the large iron gate, her palms icy. A light drizzle fell from the dark sky, and the wind howled through the dying trees.
No one came to greet her.
She pushed the gate open and stepped inside. Every footstep echoed sharply in the heavy silence, as if the air itself were holding its breath.
The house was grand, built in a classical European style. The walls were stained, the ceilings high, and the dusty chandelier hung like a ghost from above. Everything was old, faded, and cold, as though it had been forgotten for decades.
A piece of paper sat on the table.
"My room is on the third floor. You may sleep in the room next door."
The handwriting was neat, cold.
No greeting. No instruction. No one in sight.
She dragged her suitcase up the stairs. Each step creaked beneath her feet, echoing down the long hallway. The wind whistled through the window cracks. Wooden doors groaned and clicked softly in the distance. Her heart pounded louder with every breath.
The guest room was open. Clean, simply furnished, but cold.
A large oil painting hung on the wall — Luc Trac.
His face in the portrait was pale, nose sharp, eyes deep and hollow. Not just a gaze — but a stare that made the hairs on her neck stand.
She approached it, gently touching the frame. A chill swept across the back of her neck.
Whoosh.
The curtains fluttered, even though the windows were shut. Somewhere in the house, footsteps echoed — slow, deliberate, like someone approaching… but there was no one there.
She turned. The hallway was empty.
"Hello?" she called softly.
No response. Only wind.
Then — a man's voice spoke right behind her.
"So… you've chosen to stay?"
She spun around.
No one.
Panic surged through her veins. She ran down the stairs, reached the front door — it wouldn't open. She twisted the knob, slammed her fists on the wood, screamed — but outside was only darkness and rain.
No phone signal.
No one to hear her.
No escape.
She returned to the guestroom, locked the door, and slumped against it, heart racing. But when she looked up—
Someone was on the bed.
A man.
He lay on his side, facing away from her, still and silent.
She stepped back, trembling.
"Who are you?" she asked, her voice barely audible.
No answer.
Slowly, the man sat up. Moonlight spilled through the window, casting his face in silver.
It was Luc Trac.
But his face… it was deathly pale. Lips bloodless. Eyes sunken and lifeless.
She screamed and bolted.
He didn't follow.
Only his voice remained in the air, calm and cold:
"From now on… you are my wife."
"You cannot leave."
Three days later, the city was rocked by a chilling revelation:
Luc Trac had died three years ago.
His body was buried on the very grounds of the mansion where Linh Nguyet now lived.