Marked by a Stranger

***Rae:*

It was three years ago. A day like today—bright, calm, blooming.

When I got married.

A garden wedding. Birds chirped differently that morning, almost as if they knew.

There were congratulations. Laughter. I said, “I do.”

And then the rain came. Sudden. Furious. A downpour that lasted an hour.

Blessings, they called it.

I smiled through it.

There were bees too.

They buzzed loud, frantic, looping in strange circles above our heads.

They disbanded. Regrouped. Disbanded again.

And then they formed initials: R. W. F.

I cried. I laughed. I said it meant “Rae Weds Fedricko.”

I believed it.

I was twenty-four. Fresh out of college. Naïve. Jobless. Stupidly in love.

Everyone thought we were reckless.

“Wrong move,” they said.

Friends held intervention-like meetups.

“Blink if you’re being forced.”

They begged me to reconsider.

“You need stability. What if something goes wrong? We’re not saying your marriage will fail—but what if?”

I had smiled. Brave. Blind.

“He’s my soulmate. We’ll be together forever.”

A month of arguing later, they gave up. I got married.

I was happy.

Or so I thought.

Now, three years later, I’m standing in the same garden. Same time. Same date.

Only this time, it’s not my wedding.

But his.

Again.

Everything is grander now—extravagant, excessive.

It’s as if the goddess of wealth vomited gold all over this place.

Golden chairs. Golden tables. Red roses. Red carpets.

Violin strings echo across the garden like soft weeping.

Laughter floats like confetti. The air smells of expensive perfume and champagne.

It’s beautiful.

It’s suffocating.

And again the bride isn’t me.

But the groom is still Fedricko.

He’s dressed in white. Radiant. Smiling. Rare.

He’s the opposite of the man I once knew.

I drift through the crowd. I’m not sure if I’m admiring the decor or just pretending to be occupied.

I want to leave. Desperately.

I crave the quiet of my room—tiny, cold, dim.

That’s where I breathe.

But I can’t leave.

Not today.

Not under Mom’s watchful eye. She’d think I’m jealous.

Maybe I am.

Or maybe I’m just trying to accept that he’s no longer mine.

Funny, how someone you knew your whole life can become a stranger.

Worse—someone you thought knew you.

“The hell, Rae?!”

A voice cuts through my thoughts like a whip.

Mother.

An angry buffalo in heels. She circles me like prey, eyes sharp and full of judgment.

“Can’t you at least pretend to be happy?”

I laugh dryly and raise the champagne glass to my lips. I hate the taste.

But I need something in my mouth to stop the words from spilling out.

Years ago, she told me I laughed too much. “Girls should be soft, not loud.”

Now I’m quiet, and she still complains.

“And what are you even wearing?”

I open my mouth.

Close it.

Try again.

She doesn’t wait for answers. She never has.

She starts in on everything.

How I’m wasting my youth.

How I should’ve fought to keep Fedricko.

How Sasha knew how to "tame a man."

I tune her out.

My eyes trace a brown patch on the ceiling. I imagine it’s a forgotten country.

I'd move there. Alone. With trees. And silence.

“And no makeup? You look like a ghost!”

I start humming inside my head. A soothing, familiar tune.

She glares. I meet her gaze, unflinching.

“We’re not done, young lady.”

She storms off.

The violin picks up again, louder this time, or maybe it’s just the sound of my skull cracking under pressure.

I glance down at my pale blue dress.

Long sleeves. Modest hem. It covers me like armor.

But she wanted red. Tight. Glittering.

She wanted a daughter who dazzled and flirted with politicians' sons.

I’m not her dream.

Never was.

I swallow the lump in my throat.

Not words. Those dried up years ago.

Sasha floats by, all light and laughter. Cameras chase her like bees to sugar.

She’s stunning.

She’s radiant.

She’s everything I was supposed to be.

I turn away.

Disappearing into the crowd like a ghost.

In the corner, I find a gift table. I straighten ribbons. Arrange cards.

Busy hands are less likely to shake.

But she finds me again.

“Standing around again, Rae?”

Her voice is venom close to my ear.

“No wonder he cheated. No spark. No ambition. Just… this.”

I grip the edge of the table.

She doesn’t know I’m breaking.

Or maybe she does.

Maybe she wants to see the snap, the explosion—another thing to blame me for.

Nothing I do is ever enough.

Not silence.

Not compliance.

Not distance.

She hated that I loved him.

Resented that I married him.

Despises me now that I let him go.

If I’d taken him back, she would’ve blamed me for ruining Sasha’s shot at happiness. Irony enough—she's the one i found in bed with Fedricko.

There’s no winning with her.

I vanish behind a pillar. Again.

And then—I feel it.

A presence.

Not familiar. Not hostile. But heavy.

I turn slowly.

There, just inside the garden doors, stands a man.

Tall. Broad. Dressed in black, like he stepped out of a storm.

Tattooed forearms. Smoke curled up in ink. A single silver ring.

He watches me.

Only me.

Not the bride. Not the lights. Not the party.

Me.

His stare strips me bare. Devours and dissects without flinching.

I should look away.

I can’t.

“Who is that?” I whisper.

“I don’t know,” someone answers nearby. I hadn’t noticed them until now.

“No one knows who he came with. He’s just… here. Watching.”

Inside, the music stutters. Out here, time has stopped.

Something stirs inside me. Something reckless.

“Go talk to him,” a voice inside urges. “He’s clearly into you.”

I smirk, imagining Mom’s face when she finds out I banged a stranger.

A beautiful ghost of a man.

As if summoned by my thoughts, he steps forward.

Then another.

His eyes never leave mine.

He stops in front of me. Close enough to breathe the same air.

He smells like smoke and rain and something

colder than night.

He doesn’t smile.

He just says, voice low and rough—

“Come with me.”

No hello.

No name.

No explanation.

Just that.

My mouth opens. Closes.

I nod.