The heavy brass pendulum of the grandfather clock in the corner of Room 414 at the historic Lakeview Hotel in Newport, Rhode Island, sliced through the coastal midnight with an unyielding, metallic stroke.
Outside, a violent November nor’easter battered the Atlantic shoreline, driving sheets of salt spray and freezing rain against the leaded glass casements. The radiator beneath the sill clanked softly, emitting a dry, institutional warmth that smelled of aged mahogany, sea damp, and the white gardenias arranged on the console table.
I sat on the edge of the four-poster cherry bed, holding my breath until the blood roared in my ears.
On the wardrobe door hung the garment bag containing my hand-embroidered silk gown—a bridal masterpiece my late mother, Clara Mercer, had spent two years designing before her passing. On the mahogany nightstand rested the velvet folio containing my handwritten wedding vows, and beside it, the glowing screen of my phone displaying the message my fiancé, Ethan Cole, had sent forty minutes earlier:
