When My Groom Took My Grandmother’s Heirloom for His Mistress

The click of the lock tumbling was the loudest sound in the universe. I lay curled on the rug, my damp scrubs clinging to my skin like a second, rotting skin. The cold from the Puget Sound had settled into my marrow, a deep, aching freeze that no amount of friction could thaw.

The door creaked open. It wasn't Carter with his legal pad or Dylan with his security protocols.

Emilia stepped inside, closing the door softly behind her. The air in the room instantly soured, the scent of ozone and decaying flowers choking out the smell of rain. She didn't wear her mask of concern. Her face was slack, her eyes devoid of the sparkling warmth she performed for the men. In the dim light, her aura wasn't just violet; it was a bruised, necrotic black.

"Look at you," she purred, stepping over my legs to sit on the edge of the bed. " The great Guardian. Reduced to a shivering, wet rat."

I tried to push myself up, but my arms trembled violently. "Get out, Emilia."

She laughed, a sound like dry leaves skittering on pavement. "I always wondered what it would take to break an angel. I thought it would be harder. But you celestial types... you're so predictable. You love until it bleeds you dry."

She leaned down, her face inches from mine. Her eyes flashed—a vertical slit of darkness in the iris. "I didn't just want Carter, Roselyn. I wanted *your* life. The adoration. The perfect family. I could smell the magic on you the day we met. It smelled like... potential."

She reached out. I flinched, but I was too weak to move. Her hand, cold as marble, pressed against my forehead—the very spot where I used to channel healing light into my patients.

A scream died in my throat. It wasn't pain; it was emptiness. I felt a hook sink into my spiritual core, dragging the last reserves of my essence upward. My vision grayed. The golden tether of my soul, already frayed, began to unravel. She was drinking me. Siphoning the last drops of the divine to feed her hollow void.

"Delicious," she whispered, pulling back. Her cheeks flushed with stolen color, while I felt my skin turn the color of ash. "Now you're just a husk. Do us all a favor and expire quietly."

She stood and swept out of the room, the lock clicking home with finality.

I lay there, panting, the room spinning. *One hour. Maybe less.* The sigil on my wrist was no longer a burn; it was a numb, black void.

From downstairs, a commotion erupted. The muffled baritone of men arguing drifted through the floorboards, followed by a voice that made the air in the room vibrate—Father Michael.

"I am not leaving until I see her, Carter!" The chaplain’s voice was a thunderclap of spiritual authority. "There is a darkness in this house that has nothing to do with divorce!"

Suddenly, the oppressive atmosphere in the room fractured. A high-pitched whine, like feedback from a microphone, pierced my ears.

"My chest..." Carter’s voice floated up, strained and confused. "God, it burns. Why is it... foggy?"

"Sit down, Carter," Emilia’s voice cut in, sharp and frantic. I heard the rustle of fabric, a desperate movement. Then, a low, rhythmic chanting began, masked as soothing coos. "It’s just the stress, darling. Look at me. Only me."

I pressed my ear to the cold floorboards. The static hiss of magic was reacting to Father Michael’s presence, but the source... the source was close to them.

*"My chest..."*

Realization hit me with the force of a defibrillator. The hexes weren't in the house. They weren't in the food. They were on them. Sewn into the linings of their jackets, the collars of their shirts—physical anchors binding the spell to their heartbeats.

It didn't matter now. Saving them was a luxury I could no longer afford. I had to save my soul.

I dragged myself to the window. The latch was painted shut, a relic of the house's age. I dug my fingernails into the seam, the paint chipping under my assault. My nails tore, bleeding quick, but I didn't stop. With a guttural cry, I summoned the last spark of strength Emilia hadn't devoured and shoved.

The sash flew up. The storm roared into the room, wind and rain lashing my face.

I climbed onto the sill. The roof of the manor was steep, slate tiles slick with moss and rain. Below, the garden was a blur of shadows. A fall from here would break bones, but it might not kill me fast enough. I needed height. I needed the peak.

I crawled out, the wind threatening to peel me from the building. My bare feet slipped on the wet slate, scraping raw against the rough texture. I scrambled upward on hands and knees, a desperate, clawing ascent toward the chimney.

Rain plastered my hair to my skull. Lightning flashed, illuminating the jagged silhouette of the gargoyles Carter had insisted on keeping. I reached the apex of the roof, wrapping my arms around the cold brick of the chimney stack.

I stood up.

The wind howled, tearing at my scrubs. I looked down at the driveway, three stories below. The concrete pavers looked small, distant. Lethal.

I closed my eyes, tilting my head back to the storm. The High Priestess was waiting. The door was open. All I had to do was step through.

"I release you," I whispered to the wind, to the men downstairs, to the life I had loved too much.

I shifted my weight forward, and the world tilted.