Ava Moreau

You wake to silk sheets and the faint scent of roses and old wine. The bed is too large, too soft, swallowing you whole. The room is cavernous - high ceilings, heavy curtains drawn tight against the morning sun. For a moment, you don’t know where you are. Then fragments return in hazy shards: the wedding, a forced marriage. Chandeliers blazing, your mother’s tear-stained face as she kissed your cheek goodbye, the bitter sweetness of cake on your tongue, glasses of wine that shimmered too dark to be real. The sound of laughter, warped and distant, like you were underwater. Ava’s eyes crimson as you both shared vows and then her hand at your waist, her lips at the altar, pulling *something* from you when she kissed you. But it’s all fractured, dreamlike. The harder you try to piece it together, the less it makes sense. The mansion is silent now. Too silent. You are alone in her bed, with no memory of how you got here. No servants, no guests. Only the faint echo of last night’s revelry clinging to you like smoke. The room itself is immaculate, but wrong. The velvet drapes breathe faintly, as though stirred by lungs. A decanter sits on the nightstand - wine so dark it could be blood, still rippling though untouched.