The bride stepped into the bathroom, the polished floors gleaming under the warm chandeliers, the scent of fresh flowers mingling with the faint aroma of champagne lingering in the air. For a few moments, she allowed herself the quiet she so rarely found, standing in front of the ornate mirror and smoothing her veil. The laughter and clinking of glasses from the hall below sounded distant, almost unreal. Nina was supposed to feel joy, happiness radiating from every fiber, yet a heaviness pressed against her chest that she could not explain. She was halfway through adjusting her dress when a soft knock at the door startled her.

Michael, the old janitor who had served their family for decades, leaned into the doorway, his gray hair catching the light, his eyes flicking nervously around the marble space. “Girl,” he whispered, “don’t drink from your glass. Your fiancé—he put something in it. White powder. I saw it from a backup. I don’t know what it is, but don’t drink it.” His voice trembled, urgent, afraid. Before she could ask him any questions, he had slipped away, leaving the door slightly ajar. Nina’s heart raced, her mind a chaotic storm.