Two hours before the ceremony, my cousin warned me: Stop everything. Check the safe in her room. I laughed it off, but when I opened it, my hands started shaking. My phone vibrated nonstop with 25 missed calls.

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The June sea breeze from the Atlantic swept across the lush green lawns of The Breakers estate in Newport. It was my wedding day. Everything was surreal: 300 high-society guests, a symphony orchestra from Boston, and my bride, Isabella – the most beautiful woman I had ever met.

I, Julian Vance, 32, CEO of a rising biotechnology company, stood adjusting my bow tie in the waiting room. I felt like the luckiest man in the world.

The door burst open. Not the best man or the wedding planner. It was Chloe, my distant cousin, a freelance investigative journalist with an eccentric and suspicious personality.

“Julian, we need to talk,” Chloe said, breathless, clutching her phone.

“Chloe? What are you doing here? The wedding is about to begin,” I chuckled, turning to look in the mirror.

“You have to stop. Right now,” Chloe’s voice was sharp, devoid of any hint of jest. She stepped forward, grabbed my arm, her fingernails digging into the expensive fabric of my suit. “I’m serious. You need to check the safe in Isabella’s dressing room.”

I frowned, pushing her hand away. “What the hell are you talking about? Isabella’s getting her makeup done. I can’t just barge in there and rummage through her things. You’ve had too much to drink again, haven’t you?”

“No!” Chloe hissed. “I just got a tip from an old source at the FBI. About a woman who matches Isabella’s description. Julian, listen to me. The safe’s combination is her ex-husband’s birthdate. 04-12-88.”

“Isabella never married,” I said coldly. “Get out.”

“Go check! If I’m wrong, I’ll kneel and apologize to you in front of 300 guests. But if I’m right… you’ll save your life.”

Chloe slipped a piece of paper with a code number into my hand and was escorted out by a bodyguard (whom I waved to).

I stood alone in the room. Suspicion, like a drop of black ink, began to spread through my mind. Isabella was perfect, but her past was always a hazy mist. She said her parents were dead, she had no relatives, and she came from a small town in the Midwest I’d never visited.

There were 90 minutes left until the ceremony.

Curiosity overcame my pride. I crept down the hallway to the bride’s private dressing room. Luckily, Isabella was out taking photos with the bridesmaids in the back garden. The room was empty.

The small safe was hidden behind an oil painting.

I entered the code Chloe gave me: 0-4-1-2-8-8.

Beep. Click.

The safe door swung open.

I chuckled in relief. It must have been a coincidence, or Chloe had secretly seen Isabella open it. Inside, it was probably jewelry or a wedding gift.

I reached in.

And when I pulled out what was inside, the smile on my face vanished. My hands began to tremble.

Chapter 2: The Black Widows

There were no diamonds inside.

Only a stack of passports. Five of them.

Each one bore a different name: Elena Rostova, Sarah Jenkins, Monica Vitti, Claire Redfield…

But they all had the same picture: Isabella’s beautiful, saintly face.

Beneath the stack of passports was a black leather-bound notebook. I opened it. It wasn’t a diary. It was an accounting ledger.

Target 1: Richard (Chicago) – Car accident. Revenue: $2 million in insurance.

Target 2: Thomas (Denver) – Food poisoning (Mushrooms). Revenue: $1.5 million.

Target 3: David (Seattle) – Slip and fall down a mountain. Revenue: $3 million.

And on the last page, the ink is still fresh:

Target 4: Julian (Newport) – ?

Plan: Anaphylaxis (Seafood allergy) during honeymoon in Bora Bora.

Expected revenue: $10 million (Life insurance + Company stock).

I collapsed to the floor. My breath caught in my throat. The woman I was about to marry wasn’t an angel. She was a professional black widow spider. She had planned to kill me on our honeymoon. Seafood allergy? I have a severe shrimp allergy, and Isabella always carefully checks my food. Now I understand, that carefulness was to ensure I didn’t die before the wedding.

My phone in my pocket started vibrating violently.

I pulled it out. The screen lit up.

25 missed calls.

All from an unknown number, with a Washington D.C. area code.

The phone vibrated again. I tremblingly answered.

“Julian Vance?” A deep, urgent male voice said.

“Yes…”

“This is Agent Miller, FBI. Your cousin, Chloe, just sent us the fingerprints she secretly obtained from your fiancée’s wine glass. Listen to me: Get out of that room immediately. She’s not Isabella. Her real name is Natasha Petrova, an internationally wanted criminal.”

“She… where is she?” I asked, my eyes fixed on the handwritten murder plan in my notebook.

“Our team is on their way, but it will take another 20 minutes. You have to act normal. If she knows you’ve found out, she’ll kill you on the spot and run. She always carries a weapon. Don’t do anything stupid.”

I hung up. Symphony music began to play in the garden. The ceremony was starting.

I heard Isabella’s footsteps and laughter outside.

Down the hallway. She’d returned.

I hastily stuffed everything into the safe, slammed it shut, and rushed into the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face.

In the mirror, I saw a face pale with terror. I had to act. I had to play the happiest groom in the world for another 20 minutes, beside the woman who was calculating my death date.

Chapter 3: The Deadly Vow

I stood in the chapel, under a canopy of white roses. The sunlight was brilliant, but I felt a chill run down my spine.

The large doors opened. Isabella walked in. She was stunning in her Vera Wang dress, smiling shyly. But now, in my eyes, that smile was as sharp as a knife.

She walked slowly toward me. Each step felt like a countdown clock.

When she placed her hand in mine, I felt a deadly softness. I looked down at the bouquet she held. Something hard bulged beneath the lace wrapping the flower stem. A knife? Or a syringe?

“My love, your hands are so cold,” Isabella whispered, her eyes feigning anxiety. “Are you nervous?”

“Just… so happy,” I replied, trying to suppress my nausea.

The pastor began the vows. I looked around. Where was the FBI agent? Where was Chloe? I saw Chloe standing in a hidden corner, nodding slightly at me, signaling me to stall.

“Julian Vance, do you agree to take this woman as your wife…?”

I was silent. One second. Two seconds. Five seconds.

The entire hall began to murmur. Isabella tightened her grip on my hand, her fingernails digging into my flesh painfully.

“Julian?” She gritted her teeth and laughed, but her eyes held a menacing glint. “Speak, my love.”

I took a deep breath. I couldn’t wait for the FBI any longer. I had to save myself.

“I…” I began, then turned to look her straight in the eyes. “I have a question for you first, Isabella. Or should I call you Natasha?”

Isabella’s face changed in an instant. From shyness to cold cruelty. She realized her facade had been stripped away.

She didn’t hesitate. She yanked her hand away, her other hand slipping into the wedding bouquet.

“Careful! She has a gun!” Chloe yelled from behind.

Isabella pulled out a tiny, pearl-encrusted pistol. She pointed it directly at my chest.

“Idiot,” she hissed. “You should have said ‘I do,’ and death would have been more painless.”

Guests screamed, falling to the ground.

“Open the back door! Where’s the car!” Isabella yelled into the lapel microphone hidden under her wedding dress. It turned out my best man – the friend she’d introduced – was also an accomplice.

He lunged forward, pointing his gun at the crowd to clear a path.

“Let’s go, Natasha! Plan B!” he yelled.

Isabella recoiled, her gun still pointed at me. “Goodbye, Julian. Too bad for the $10 million.”

She pulled the trigger.

Bang!

The bullet whizzed past. I closed my eyes.

But I felt no pain.

A figure leaped from the front row, shielding me.

It was Chloe.

The bullet struck Chloe in the shoulder, knocking her to the ground.

At the same time, there was a clatter of shattering glass. FBI agents rappelled down from the glass dome of the banquet hall like hawks. Windows were smashed, snipers were in position.

“Put down your weapons! FBI!”

Isabella – or Natasha – looked around. She was surrounded. Her accomplices had been shot at the back door.

She looked at me one last time, her eyes filled with hatred. She was about to raise the gun to her temple to kill herself.

But a sniper’s bullet knocked the gun out of her hand.

The special forces swooped in, pinning her to the cold marble floor. Her pristine white wedding dress was trampled and stained with mud by their boots.

Chapter End: After the Storm

I knelt beside Chloe. Blood soaked her evening gown.

“Chloe! Chloe!” I screamed. “Where’s the doctor?”

Chloe opened her eyes, grimacing in pain but managing a strained smile.

“I told you… I was right,” she whispered. “You owe me… an apology… and the hospital bills.”

Tears welled up in my eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

…

Six months later.

I sat in the courtroom. Natasha Petrova was sentenced to life imprisonment without parole for three murders and numerous fraud charges. She sat there, her face expressionless, showing no remorse.

I walked out of the courthouse. The sunlight had never been so brilliant.

Chloe was waiting for me outside, her hand bandaged (the wound had healed, but she still liked to wear it as a form of self-care).

“Finished?” Chloe asked.

“Finished,” I nodded.

“So what are you going to do with the wedding ring now?”

I took the diamond ring out of my pocket. “Sell it. Invest the money in your newspaper. Consider it payment for saving my life.”

Chloe laughed loudly, linking arms with me. “Okay, cousin. But next time you’re going to date someone, please send me their resume to check beforehand. I don’t want to get shot again.”

I looked at Chloe, then at the deep blue sky. I nearly lost my life because of a false beauty, but I was saved by a harsh truth and the love of family.

My life took the biggest twist, but thankfully, it wasn’t the end.