Chapter 3 - The Bridal Suite Alibi
The cold didn't just hurt anymore; it was a physical weight pressing down on my chest, slowing the rhythm of my heart until every beat felt like a heavy stone dropping into deep water. I sat on the frozen floor, my legs tucked beneath my white silk dress—the dress I was supposed to wear to promise Ethan another ten years of devotion.
Ten years of marriage. It had all been a beautifully choreographed lie.
I thought about the last twelve months. The "hardest year of our lives," Ethan had called it. He had launched his campaign for the State Senate. Our finances had suddenly become complicated. He had insisted on taking out a joint five-million-dollar life insurance policy on me, claiming it was standard protocol for high-profile political families to protect their assets from smear campaigns.
And then there was Vanessa. She had appeared four months ago, introduced as the "lead digital strategist" for the Miller Campaign. She was always in our house, always whispering in the hallway, always handing me drinks that tasted faintly of copper.
"You're not dying here, Chloe," I whispered to myself, my teeth chattering so hard I bit the inside of my lip. The taste of blood was warm, a sharp reminder that I was still breathing.
I stood up on trembling legs, using the metal shelves for support. The freezer was stocked with heavy boxes of frozen seafood and crates of champagne for the reception. In the far corner, near the ventilation unit, I noticed a small glint of silver.
It was a rusted iron crowbar, left behind by the maintenance crew who had repaired the compressor the previous week.
I dragged my numb feet across the floor, my fingers barely able to close around the cold iron handle. I didn't try to break the steel door—I knew that was impossible. Instead, I looked up at the ventilation shaft. The aluminum grate was held in place by four simple screws, rusted from the humidity of the refrigeration unit.
I jammed the edge of the crowbar into the corner of the grate, using every ounce of weight left in my shivering body to pry it loose. The metal groaned, a loud, screeching protest that echoed through the small space.
Crack.
The top two screws gave way, the aluminum panel bending downward to reveal a dark, narrow tunnel that smelled of dust and old oil. It was small—barely wide enough for a woman in a wedding gown—but it led upward toward the main utility column of the hotel.
May you like
I stripped off the heavy, wet tulle layers of my skirt, leaving myself in just the silk slip underneath. My skin was covered in blue-gray patches of frostbite, but the adrenaline running through my veins was hotter than fire.
I scrambled onto the top shelf, jammed my head and shoulders into the dark vent, and began to crawl.
