Chapter 2: The Imposter’s Honeymoon

On the wedding night, the soft glow of the candles flickered across the room.

A string of white Christmas lights traced the window, their bulbs twinkling on the wood-paneled walls of Michael’s old family house. Outside, the hum of traffic on the expressway was muted by the thick drapes. The air smelled of vanilla and summer rain.

Michael came in, his silhouette framed by the shadows, his presence as striking and elegant as the first rays of sunrise.

He stood tall in his navy suit, tie slightly loosened, hair falling just-so over his brow. He carried himself like he owned the room, shoulders squared, eyes dark and intense—a presence you felt in your bones. I remembered the first time I saw him after his growth spurt, how he seemed to fill every doorway he entered, the quiet confidence that could silence a room.

The bride’s veil was lifted.

A hush settled as he reached for the lace, the crinkle of tulle catching on his cufflinks. In the gentle lamplight, the moment hung suspended—old clock ticking in the hall, everyone holding their breath.

The woman beneath was delicate and stunning—breathtakingly beautiful—even the curve of her smile was identical to mine.

Her lips curled in that familiar, shy grin; freckles dusted her nose just like mine. For a heartbeat, even I was startled by how perfect the illusion was. Not a detail out of place—the tilt of her chin, the way she blinked twice before speaking.

Michael stared, momentarily dazed, as if lost in thought.

His eyes flickered—something searching, maybe even wary. The air crackled between them, and for a second, I thought he saw me, hovering behind her shoulder like a shadow he couldn’t name.

I remembered what Maple had told me the night before.

Her voice echoed, sly and smooth, as she twisted the necklace—my necklace—between her fingers. I could still hear her, as if she stood behind me, whispering just out of reach.

She said she’d been able to take human form for a long time, but had waited, endured, all for this day.

Years spent watching me grow up—every birthday candle, every scraped knee—she was there. She’d waited for the right moment, hiding in plain sight beneath bark and leaves, biding her time as only spirits can.

She said she envied my life, envied the love I got from my family since I was a kid, but what she envied most was that I had such a perfect fiancé.

She’d seen him only once and fell head over heels.

She said, thankfully, Michael didn’t love me—otherwise, she wouldn’t have been able to resist grinding my bones to dust, leaving nothing behind.

I never knew how deep her envy ran until she said it—her tone somewhere between wistful and wicked. There was a coldness in her words that made my skin crawl, even now.

She wanted me to watch, to see for myself how Michael would fall for her, step by step.

Her threat clung to me like a chill—she meant to turn every moment into a knife twist, make me witness my own erasure, as if that were some kind of punishment for being loved.

But how could that be possible?

Michael’s fierce reputation was known all over Chicago. He grew up running with the South Side crowd, where a tough look could keep you safe and a soft heart got you stomped. He once dragged a guy down Main Street behind his pickup, leaving a trail of blood, just because the guy had mouthed off to him.

Everyone in the neighborhood still told the story—how he threw the punk’s phone into the gutter, how his boots left muddy prints across the asphalt. Some said he was just defending me, but others whispered that Michael’s temper could set a whole block on edge.

A man like that always wore a cold expression, even with me, never showing a hint of affection.

Even at backyard BBQs, when my dad cracked jokes or neighbors teased us about our engagement, Michael barely smiled. He’d watch me with those deep, unreadable eyes—never touching, never letting his guard down.

Even when people congratulated him on marrying me—the daughter of a respected family—he’d just say, “It’s just a match our parents set up. Nothing but a formality.”

He’d always say it flat, no trace of excitement. Sometimes, I wondered if he even wanted to be there, sitting in our sunroom with my parents, letting everyone assume we were a love story for the ages.

So I knew, from early on, that Michael didn’t love me.

He didn’t even like me.

I’d convinced myself of that truth years ago, burying any hope deep beneath my ribs, pretending it didn’t ache every time he looked past me.