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. How could this be true? Greg? Greg, so reliable, so calm, the man who had helped her through grief and carried her through the shadow of her first husband’s death? Could he possibly do this? The bathroom, once a haven, now felt like a cage. She held the glass in her trembling hands, staring at the translucent liquid that had moments ago seemed harmless. Every sound from the hall now carried a sinister undertone: laughter sounded hollow, the music too loud, the clinking of glasses sharp and threatening. She realized she had no choice but to act quickly. Carefully, with the kind of precision born from a rising panic, she swapped her glass with an empty one hidden nearby, hoping no one had noticed. Her hands shook so violently that she nearly dropped it, the tiny glass sliding dangerously on the marble counter before she steadied it. Then, heart still hammering, she took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and returned to the hall as if nothing had happened.
The room was a swirl of color and noise. Guests dressed in glittering gowns and crisp suits laughed and danced, the sound of champagne flutes mingling with the faint, sweet strains of a live string quartet tucked into a corner. The Tamada, the master of ceremonies, a tall man with a booming voice and an air of practiced authority, called out jokes and anecdotes, causing waves of laughter to ripple across the hall. Despite the spectacle, Nina felt a strange emptiness, as if she were watching someone else’s life play out on a stage. Her father, normally stoic, was uncharacteristically animated, raising his glass and laughing more heartily than she remembered. Yet Nina felt only fatigue and unease, a sense that something vital had been removed from the room—her peace of mind, perhaps, or her certainty about the man she was about to marry. As she walked toward her assigned seat at the head table, the luxurious weight of her gown dragging slightly against the polished floors, she tried to summon composure. She fixed her veil, brushing imaginary dust from the delicate fabric, and inhaled slowly, attempting to steady the rapid rhythm of her heartbeat. It was then that the door behind her opened quietly, and the familiar figure of Michael, the janitor, appeared again. His expression was grim, lined with years of silent observation, of service, of watching her family. Without hesitation, he leaned slightly forward and repeated his warning: “Girl, don’t drink from your glass. White powder. I saw it. Quickly. Don’t hesitate.” His voice was almost swallowed by the music and laughter behind them, but the urgency cut through her fog of confusion like a knife.
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