My name is Sophia Reynolds, a twenty-seven-year-old American woman living in Boston. My life had always felt like a Hollywood romance: I met Benjamin Grant—my idea of perfect—at a coffee shop in Harvard Square. Tall, wavy brown hair, a smile that could melt ice, and a successful lawyer at a top firm. We fell in love at first sight. Ben was everything—flowers every week, autumn walks through the Common, whispered promises that made me feel like the luckiest woman alive.

After two years, he proposed on the Brooklyn Bridge at sunset, diamond ring sparkling against the city lights. Our wedding was a dream: an old stone church in Massachusetts, a flowing white gown, three hundred guests, and a reception on the water. During our first dance, he leaned in and said, “You’re my forever, Sophia. My everything.”

For our wedding night, we booked the presidential suite at a five-star hotel overlooking the Charles River. The room was pure magic—king bed draped in white linen, rose petals scattered like confetti, chilled champagne, candles flickering. I’ve always been playful, the kind who loves harmless pranks. I’d seen the TikTok trend: hide under the bed on your wedding night, wait for your husband to fall asleep, then grab his ankle or yell “boo!” I thought it would be hilarious. Ben scares so easily—he once screamed at a fake spider I put in his shoe.

I sent him on a mission: “Honey, go down to the bar and grab another bottle of champagne. I’m thirsty.” He kissed me, grinning. “Anything for my wife. Back in five.”

The second the door closed, I killed the lights, leaving only the soft glow of the bedside lamp, and slid under the bed. The space was surprisingly roomy—thick carpet, a little dusty, but clean enough. I lay on my stomach, phone on silent, heart racing with excitement. I could already picture his face.

Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. My back started to ache against the hard floor. I began replaying memories: our first coffee spill, the weekend in Maine, the nights tangled in sheets whispering future plans. I loved him so fiercely it almost hurt.

Finally, the door opened.

Footsteps—his loafers. I bit my lip to keep from giggling.

But then I heard his voice—low, cold, nothing like the warm tone he used with me. He was on the phone.

“Yes. It’s done. The wedding went perfectly. She’s mine now. The poison in her champagne at the reception will work slowly—heart failure, completely natural. No one will ever suspect. Then the Reynolds fortune is all ours.”

My blood turned to ice.

Poison? Fortune?

My family had money—my late father built a real-estate empire and left everything to me. Ben knew that. But… poison?

He laughed softly. “Mother, you’re a genius. Marrying her was the perfect cover.”

Mother?

Ben’s mother died of cancer five years ago. He still got teary telling the story.

The door opened again. A woman’s voice—older, familiar, chilling.

“My brilliant boy. The old Mrs. Reynolds was taken care of last year. Now it’s her turn. The money will finally be ours.”

I knew that voice. Elizabeth Grant—my mother-in-law. The woman supposedly dead.

My body went numb. They killed my grandmother? The “car accident” last year?

Ben’s tone turned casual, almost tender. “And if the poison’s too slow tonight, I’ll finish it myself. Strangle her in her sleep. Like I did with Dad.”

Dad’s hunting accident. Suddenly not an accident.

Elizabeth chuckled. “Good boy. Just make sure the last one is properly disposed of this time. Under the bed was sloppy.”

Last one…?”

My hand brushed something in the dark. Cold. Stiff. Fingers.

A body.

A woman—long hair, slight decomposition smell. I clamped both hands over my mouth to stop the scream. Another wife? A girlfriend? How many had there been?

They left the room, murmuring about flight to Mexico tomorrow.

I was alone with a corpse and the man I married—a monster.”

I lay there, tears streaming silently. Every kiss, every “I love you,”—lies. Three years, all for money.

But I am not prey.

I eased my phone out my phone. While waiting, I had—miraculously—hit record on a voice memo app out of habit when I first hid. Everything captured.

I dialed 911, whispered the hotel, room number, and that I was trapped with a body and killers.”

I emailed the audio file to my best friend Lily and my lawyer—backup.

Ben returned alone. He called softly, mock-sweet: “Sophia? Darling? Where are you hiding?” Then, colder: “Come out, love. I’ll make it quick.”

I held my breath.

Sirens.

Police burst in minutes later. They found Ben with gloves and a pillow. Elizabeth was arrested in the adjacent suite.

Ben stared at me as they cuffed him—genuine shock. “Sophia… how…?”

I stood in my rumpled wedding dress, voice steady for the first time all night.

“Because you never loved me. Not even close.”

The trial was national news. The body under the bed was his previous fiancée— victim five,” the DA said. Elizabeth faked death” to escape prior investigation.

I survived.

I wrote a book. Speak at safety events. Learned to trust my instincts.

But even now, years later, I never sleep without checking under the bed.

Some nights, I still smell roses and death.