The gallery opening in SoHo was crowded, noisy, and pretentious—exactly the kind of place I, Maya, used to avoid. I was a struggling artist, specializing in abstract oil paintings that critics described as “promising” but buyers as “confused.” I stood in a corner, clutching a glass of cheap white wine, watching people ignore my work.

Then David went in.

It wasn’t just that he was handsome—though he did have those symmetrical, defined features you only see in magazines. It was the way he moved—with a natural, commanding grace that made his way through the crowd. He walked straight to my darkest, most cryptic painting, The Blue Void , a piece I’d priced ridiculously high just to avoid selling it.

“It’s magnificent,” she said, turning to me. Her eyes were a striking, icy blue. “It captures the feeling of suffocating in open air. I must have it.”

“It’s not actually for sale,” I stammered.

“Double the price,” she replied, smiling. “Consider it a discount to meet the artist with the saddest eyes in this room.”

That’s how it all began. The next six months were a whirlwind of what I now know was “love bombing,” but at the time it felt like destiny. David was perfect. He was a venture capitalist with endless resources and even greater charm. He filled my studio with imported peonies. He took us to Paris for dinner because I mentioned wanting a specific croissant. He listened to my dreams and reinforced my insecurities. He made me feel like the center of the universe.

My friends were jealous. My parents were relieved that I had finally found stability.

Only Sarah, my older sister, remained indifferent.

Sarah was a pragmatic, sharp-tongued lawyer who saw the world in terms of risk and responsibility. While everyone else sighed at David’s gestures, she watched him with the intensity of a hawk.

“He’s too perfect, Maya,” he warned me one night, while we were having coffee in my kitchen. “Nobody is that polished. It seems… calculated. Like he’s following a script.”

“You’re being cynical,” I replied, hurt. “Why can’t you be happy for me? Are you jealous?”

That accusation silenced her, but it did not change the expression of deep concern in her eyes.

The wedding day arrived like a crescendo. The venue was the Grand Conservatory, a crystal palace filled with thousands of white orchids. I stood on the dais, enveloped in a custom-made silk dress, holding David’s hand. We were the golden couple. The ceremony was flawless. The reception, a dream.

The moment to cut the cake arrived. An architectural tower of seven stories made of fondant and sugar, crowned with gold leaf.

David smiled at me.

—Ready, my love?

He placed his hand on mine, on the silver handle of the knife. I gazed at him adoringly, believing that my life had finally docked in the harbor of happiness.

Suddenly, Sarah went up on stage.

It seemed like a friendly gesture of congratulations. The guests smiled. Sarah hugged me tightly. But the moment her arms encircled me, I felt myself trembling. I vibrated with a terror so profound it became contagious.

“Sarah?” I whispered.

She didn’t move away. She knelt down, pretending to adjust the train of my dress, hiding her face from David and the guests.

His hand squeezed my ankle hard, leaving bruised skin. He leaned in and his lips brushed my ear. His voice was cold; it was a whisper filled with primal fear.

—Don’t cut the cake. Throw it away. Now. If you want to survive tonight.

My breath caught in my throat. I stepped back slightly to look at her. I wanted to ask her why, I wanted to call her crazy.

But then I looked beyond her. I caught David’s gaze.

He wasn’t looking at me with love. He wasn’t looking at Sarah. He was staring at his watch, his jaw tense, impatient. And when his eyes returned to the cake, a small, cold smile appeared on his lips—a smile of anticipation, like a hunter watching his trap close.

I wasn’t expecting a celebration. I was expecting a result.

“Come on, darling,” David whispered, his voice lowering, losing all warmth. “Cut deep. I can’t wait for you to try the first bite. The glaze is… special.”

His hand on mine no longer felt like a caress. It was a shackle.

I looked into his eyes. The icy blue was no longer beautiful; it was empty, inhuman, like a shark’s.

Sarah’s warning echoed in my head. Push it.

I didn’t think. Instinct took over.

Instead of lowering the knife, I shifted my weight. I pushed the silver cart with my hip, with all the strength I had.

CRASH.

The sound was cataclysmic. The seven-story tower wobbled for a second and then crashed down onto the marble floor. Porcelain shattered. Layers of sponge and cream exploded outward, splattering the guests in the front row. Gold leaf and white icing covered my dress and David’s expensive tuxedo.

The room fell into a deathly silence. The string quartet stopped mid-note.

David froze. A trickle of cream slid down his cheek. His mask of sophistication vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, savage fury.

“You stupid bitch!” he roared, raising his hand as if he were going to hit me right there.

Sarah didn’t wait. She took off her heels. She grabbed my wrist with an iron grip.

—¡CORRE!

We ran. Two sisters, barefoot, through the ruins of a fairy tale. We slipped on the icing, tripped over debris, and ran not toward the main exit, but toward the service entrance that Sarah had inspected earlier.

“Stop them!” David shouted. It wasn’t the voice of a boyfriend. It was the order of a commander.

We burst through the double doors into the kitchen, startling the chefs. Sarah didn’t slow down. She knocked over a rack of pots behind us, creating a metal barrier.

“Sarah, what’s happening!” I gasped, picking up my torn dress.

—Just run!

Behind us, the doors slammed against the wall.

David appeared. He was no longer pretending. He pulled a tactical radio from his tuxedo pocket.

“Code Red!” he yelled into the device. “The asset is on the run! Secure the perimeter! I want them both alive. Break their legs if you have to, but keep their faces untouched.”

The asset.

The “security guards”—men I thought were hired to control the crowd—drew weapons. Not pistols, but tasers and expandable batons. They weren’t security. They were mercenaries.

“This way!” Sarah dragged me toward the loading ramp. The cold night air hit my face.

We ran toward the employee parking lot. Sarah’s old sedan was parked near the exit, facing outward. She had arranged everything.

“Get in!” He pushed me into the passenger seat and jumped in next to the driver.

He searched for the keys with trembling hands. I looked out the window. One of the mercenaries was running toward us, brandishing a cane.

“Sarah!” I shouted.

The man reached the car just as the engine roared. He struck the passenger window with his cane. The glass shattered all over me. I screamed.

Sarah floored the accelerator. The car lurched forward, the open door slamming into the mercenary, sending him spinning into the darkness. We skidded out of the parking lot, leaving the nightmare behind.

We drove in silence for ten minutes. Sarah weaved through the traffic like a professional driver, constantly checking the rearview mirror. Cold wind blew in through the cracked window.

“Why?” I murmured, picking crystals out of my hair. “Why did he do that? Why did he call me ‘active’?”

Sarah didn’t respond immediately. She pulled a manila folder and a small voice recorder from under her seat and tossed them into my lap.

“I went into his study this morning,” he said, his voice harsh. “I knew something didn’t add up with his ‘business trips.’ Listen.”

I pressed play. The audio was somewhat noisy, recorded with a hidden microphone.

David’s voice: “Don’t worry, Boss. The debt is paid tonight. She’s perfect. An artist, no important family connections, clean medical history. And since she’ll be my legal wife, no one will file a complaint when we go on our ‘honeymoon’.”

Unknown voice (distorted): “And the delivery?”

David: “Tonight. The cake is laced with a heavy dose of ketamine. It will drop during the reception. I’ll take her to the bridal suite to ‘rest’. You bring the van in from behind. You can get her across the border before dawn. Harvest her organs or sell her to brothels in Eastern Europe, I don’t care. Just wipe out my 5 million debt.”

The audio cut out.

I froze. My mind wanted to reject him. The flowers. Paris. His sweet words.

Everything was an investment. I wasn’t a person to him. I was livestock. I was a check he was cashing to save his life.

“Was he… was he going to sell me?” I managed to say between gagging.

“He was going to kill you, Maya,” Sarah said, tears welling in her eyes. “He’s not a prince. He’s a cornered rat.”

“Where are we going?” I asked, wiping my face. “We must hide.”

“No,” Sarah said, her jaw clenched. “We’re not going to hide anymore. We’re going to the police station.”

—He has money! He has men!

“And we have proof,” she said. “There’s a cooler in the back bag. I took a sample of the frosting from the top tier of the cake. The one that was just for you.”

We arrived at the police station. I went in wearing my destroyed wedding dress, covered in glass, holding the evidence of my own attempted murder.

The police listened to the recording. They analyzed the frosting sample. The kit turned dark purple. Positive for lethal levels of ketamine.

Back at the Conservatory, David was in “damage control mode.” He stood on a chair, speaking to the guests with feigned distress.

“I’m so sorry,” she announced, her voice trembling. “My dear Maya… she’s had a mental breakdown. The pressure… she’s run away. Please go home. I must find her.”

I was trying to clear the room so his men could look for me.

Then the sirens sounded.

Six patrol cars pulled up in front of the location. A SWAT team stormed in.

The captain entered the room, followed by Sarah and me. She was still wearing the dress, but she no longer looked like a victim.

David saw me. A spark of relief crossed his face… until he saw the police officers.

He tried to play his part one last time. He ran towards me, arms wide open.

—Maya! Thank God! Honey, are you okay? You’ve had an episode…

I went ahead. The room fell silent.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry.

I approached him. He smelled of sweat and fear.

I slapped him. Hard. A blow that echoed throughout the room.

“The show’s over, David,” I said coldly. “Your debt is paid. But you’ll pay it with twenty years in federal prison.”

The officers subdued him on the ground. Handcuffs. Arrest. His mercenaries were apprehended at the exits.

As they dragged him away, he looked at me, without masks, revealing the hollow man he truly was.

“I loved you,” he lied.

“No,” I replied. “You loved the price tag.”

The sun was just beginning to rise when we sat down on the beach, a few kilometers from the police station. We had lit a small bonfire with driftwood.

I stood by the fire, shivering in the morning chill. I took off my dress. It weighed as much as the deception I had enacted.

I threw it into the flames.

The silk burned instantly, curling and turning black. I watched as my “fairy tale” was consumed.

Sarah came over and put a wool blanket over my shoulders. She hugged me.

I rested my head on his shoulder, watching the smoke rise.

“You know,” I whispered. “I thought you were jealous. I thought you hated my happiness.”

Sarah smiled, a tired, sad smile. She squeezed my shoulder.

“I never wanted you to be unhappy, Maya,” he said. “I only wanted you to stay alive. I don’t need a prince for you. I only need my sister.”

We stood there, watching the sun dispel the fog. The fairy tale was a lie, a trap set by a monster in a tuxedo. But as I held my sister’s hand, I realized I had something better than a fairy tale.

I had the truth.
And I had the only person who would burn the whole world down to save me.