Amira wandered the estate between scheduled shots, hoping to ground herself. The halls were lined with portraits—each one more unnerving than the last. Dozens of brides in the same dress. Different faces. Same dead stare. Her footsteps echoed against marble floors, swallowed quickly by the oppressive silence.
She paused before one in particular. The woman looked eerily like her. The resemblance was uncanny, from the curl of her lips to the slope of her shoulders. Her stomach turned. That couldn't be a coincidence.
Footsteps echoed behind her. She turned sharply, already on edge.
A man leaned against a doorframe, cigarette between his fingers, dressed in a charcoal coat dusted with ash. He was tall, with messy hair, and eyes that carried exhaustion like a second skin.
"You must be the new girl," he said, exhaling smoke with a lazy grin.
"Photographer," she corrected, arms crossed. "And you are?"
"Darius. Groundskeeper. Technically. Also the driver. Occasionally the bartender. Mostly the guy who knows when to disappear."
"You weren't here last night."
"I come and go. Usually when things get... weird."
He took another drag.
"Weird?" she echoed.
He nodded toward the portrait. "They didn't tell you, did they? About the others."
She felt the hairs on her neck rise. "What others?"
Darius studied her, the grin fading. "The last photographer. Her name was Fiona. She came last winter. Smiled a lot. Bright, curious, always taking pictures."
"What happened to her?"
He flicked ash onto the floor. "No one ever saw her leave."
Amira's stomach twisted. "You're joking."
"Wish I was."
He turned and started walking down a long, curved hallway lined with mirrors—though every one was covered in a white cloth.
"Why cover the mirrors?"
Darius didn't look back. "They say mirrors hold more than reflections here."
She followed him despite herself, compelled by fear and curiosity.
"Why are you telling me this?"
He stopped at a heavy wooden door with an iron handle.
"Because you asked. And because I hate seeing good people end up as ghosts in paintings."
Before she could respond, the door creaked open on its own.
Amira stepped forward, but Darius held her back. "Not now. They're preparing."
"Preparing for what?"
He stared into the darkness beyond the door. "The ceremony."
"There's no wedding date on file. No guest list. No groom."
"Exactly."
Darius looked at her with something between pity and warning. "You've got a window, Amira. It closes fast. Pack your gear and leave before dusk."
"But I signed a contract. They've already paid."
He laughed once, dryly. "They always pay up front. Money's cheaper than a conscience."
She hesitated. "If it's so dangerous, why are you still here?"
He looked past her, through a stained-glass panel of a veiled woman holding a bouquet of bleeding roses.
"Because I stayed too long once, too."
Before she could ask what he meant, he disappeared down a narrow stairwell, the sound of his footsteps fading into stone.
She stood frozen, heart hammering.
The portraits. The bride. The missing photographer. The mirrors.
None of this made sense. But she could feel it: this wasn't a job anymore.
It was a warning.