Chapter 1: The Bride in My Wedding Dress

The fifth day after my death.

I should have been long gone, but here I was, still lingering. The world outside was muffled by the hush of winter, but inside the old servants’ quarters, Nathaniel Holloway brought his radiant new bride—his shining bride—right up to my door.

The new bride said, "Is your sister still mad? She won’t even talk to me."

Nathaniel barked, sharp with irritation, "Somebody, kick open the door!"

The door crashed open with a splintering bang! Only a cold corpse awaited them—me. Hollowed out. Still. The shock in the air was so thick you could almost taste it, like the metallic tang of blood after biting your tongue.

My strength had been shattered by Nathaniel Holloway. I was like a broken doll.

Just like that, I was thrown into the abandoned servants’ wing. He said, "Lock the door. Let her learn her lesson." Like I was some unruly child.

He didn’t know—I learned to fight just to keep the sickness at bay, the illness I’d carried since birth, a legacy from my mother.

The day he broke me was the day I died.

I struggled in agony all night in the crumbling, drafty room. The walls were so thin you could hear the wind moaning through the cracks, rattling the loose windowpanes. I remember the bitter chill biting at my skin, the taste of dust and old wood in every breath.

Mouthful after mouthful of blood spilled out… Metallic and warm, it wouldn’t stop.

The next day, as wedding bells rang through the mansion, I died, regret choking me, the sound of celebration mocking my silence. The laughter, clinking glasses, and distant peal of church bells seemed to mock the silence of my passing.

After death, my soul was forced to stay by Nathaniel’s side.

I watched him stand next to the new bride. Camera flashes lit up this perfect couple, their faces full of love and happiness. The lights glared—harsh and artificial. The crowd’s applause felt like a slap.

The master and mistress of Holloway Manor married, and the whole town celebrated. The local paper ran a spread: “A New Era for Holloway Estate.”

Only I felt my eyes burn from the sight of the bride’s brilliant white dress.

I recognized that hand-stitched wedding gown. I’d spent two months making it, working until my eyes ached just to finish it in time for the wedding. My fingertips still ached at the memory—pricked, callused, trembling with exhaustion.

I was used to wielding baseball bats and running drills, not skilled at delicate needlework.

But my mother told me, on your wedding day, only by wearing a dress you sewed yourself could you and your husband have a long, happy marriage.

I believed her.

Because I wanted so much to be with him forever, to grow old together. Forever. Grow old together. I really believed it.

Back then, Nathaniel even laughed at my clumsy stitches. He’d tease me. “You’re more likely to stab yourself than finish a hem, Marlowe.”

But now, this awkwardly sewn dress was worn by someone else, marrying the man I loved more than anything.

My heart ached uncontrollably. The pain was sharp, like a fresh bruise under old scars.

The wedding rituals were long. By the time everything finished, it was already late at night. The mansion glowed with a hundred candles, the air thick with the scent of roses and champagne.

I was forced to follow them to their bridal suite.

The moment I stepped into the garden, I recognized it. My guesthouse. I’d spent hours picking out curtains, remembering how the sunlight fell just right in the afternoons.

The yard was full of my favorite gardenias, their fragrance faint in the air. The night breeze carried the scent, bittersweet and haunting.

On the soft couch inside, there was even the candle I always used, filling the room with a familiar scent. The wax was half-melted, the wick curled just as I’d left it. It was almost like I’d never left.

But none of this belonged to me anymore.

I numbly watched the two of them toast with wedding champagne and, as the staff offered awkward congratulations, close the bedroom door. The click of the lock echoed like a final verdict.

I couldn’t leave; I could only hug myself tightly, helpless tears streaming down my face. The cold of the room pressed in, and I shivered, wishing for the warmth of a body I no longer had.

My memory drifted. Everything blurred.

That year, the border was in chaos. When I followed my father into the National Guard, I met Nathaniel Holloway. Dusty boots, the smell of gun oil, and the endless horizon—those were my days.

At that time, he volunteered to join the unit as a strategist.

My father, eager for talent, naturally agreed.

I grew up with brothers. Raised on horseback. Always surrounded by tough men. My hands were callused, my voice loud—I was never the delicate type.

I’d never seen a man like him before.

Sharp jaw, bright eyes, clean-cut—every movement was elegant and refined. He looked like he belonged in a city ballroom, not a dusty outpost.

From then on, I liked to pester him. Once, I annoyed him so much his face flushed, and he asked, "Marlowe, do you even know what shame is?"

Do you know shame… shame… The words echoed in my mind.

The bed was still creaking endlessly. The sound grated, a cruel reminder. I winced. It grated, a cruel reminder.

But then I saw a pair of well-defined hands lift the bed curtain, and Nathaniel walked out, already dressed.

If he wasn’t in there, then who was with the bride?

Before I could think further, he walked out, and I had no choice but to follow. My feet barely touched the floor, my ghostly form trailing behind him like a shadow.

I’d tried to leave him. The pain was unbearable. Every time I strayed, invisible chains yanked me back—tight, suffocating.

It was very late at night.

He looked like a lone shadow, slowly walking along the mansion’s corridors. The old hardwood floors creaked under his steps, echoing through the empty halls.

Every so often, a guard would nod or try to say hello.

Nathaniel just waved them off. Didn’t want to be bothered.

As he walked farther and farther away,