Chapter 2She Stole My Groom And The Curse

To understand the panic, you have to understand Nana.

My grandmother wasn't just a superstitious old woman. In the rural county where she grew up, she was known as a Seer. The locals whispered that she wasn't entirely human, that she had the blood of the mountain spirits in her veins.

She never missed a prediction. Not once.

She lived to be ninety-nine. She died on a crisp, bright winter afternoon, sitting in her rocking chair on the porch. She had petted the old golden retriever twice, then called my name.

"Meredith."

I was eight years old. When I ran to her, she took off the heavy silver cross she had worn her entire life and fastened it around my neck.

"Merry, you keep this on. Never take it off," she had rasped, her voice like dry leaves. "If this cross ever breaks, it means it has taken a death blow for you."

She gripped my small hand with surprising strength. "If it breaks, you run. You run from whoever is closest to you at that moment. Because when the cross breaks, it means a Calamity is coming. An absolute Calamity."

"What kind of calamity, Nana?" I had asked, innocent and confused.

She looked at me, her eyes milky with age, and whispered two words.

"Hollow Creek."

Then she closed her eyes and was gone.

Her funeral was an event. People came from three counties over—mayors, sheriffs, heavy hitters. I told my parents about the cross and the words "Hollow Creek." They turned pale, refused to explain, and immediately moved us to the city.

Now, years later, the memory felt cold against my skin.

The scandal of Preston and Sienna was tearing through our social circle. At first, people were disgusted. Sienna was the villain, the treacherous best friend. But when word got out that I had handed over the wedding—gift-wrapped the groom and the venue—the narrative shifted.

People called me weak. A doormat. A coward who let them walk all over me.

I didn’t care. Let them talk.

Sienna, meanwhile, was basking in her victory. She was Mrs. Preston distinct now. Her Instagram stories were a relentless parade of the life that was supposed to be mine. The ten-carat solitaire diamond. The two-million-dollar check from his parents. The video of Preston kneeling to put a crystal shoe on her foot.

Thank you, Meredith, she captioned one photo. And thank you to the brave girl I was, for following her heart. I chose love AND money. Life is short. Seize it.

Preston played the part of the doting husband, posting photos of them kissing on yachts and in penthouses. Our mutual "friends" flocked to her comments section, eager to stay close to the money. Some people just aren't meant for the high life, one commented, digging at me.

Sienna replied with a winking emoji.

I scrolled through her feed in our new, temporary apartment, and for the first time in days, I laughed aloud.

She had no idea what she had actually stolen.

Sienna wasn't just enjoying the money; she was monetizing the scandal. She spun the narrative of "The Great Love Story," gaining 50,000 followers overnight. Her comments were filled with girls calling her a "Queen" and saying "The unloved one is the mistress."

When the internet found out my family had fled the city, the mockery intensified. Cowards, they typed. Running away with their tails between their legs.

I could handle the insults aimed at me. But when they started attacking my parents, calling them pathetic, I snapped.

I logged into a burner account and typed under Sienna’s latest post: Insult me all you want, but leave my parents out of it. And Sienna, stop using my name for clout.