Beneath the Vows E-Book

Margot Elise Winters

• Herausgeber: Twist & Tether Press
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Lena Brooks believes she has finally outrun grief when charismatic developer James Collins sweeps her into a whirlwind romance and ferries her to a secluded honeymoon cabin high in the mountains. To friends, their love story reads like a fairy tale. To Lena, it feels like a second chance—until the white rose under glass begins to wilt, doors she was told to ignore start thumping at night, and a hidden phone flashes a video of a bride who looks disturbingly familiar.
As winter seals the cabin off from the outside world, James’s tender devotion curdles into practiced control: strict schedules, odd rules, a basement that “isn’t finished.” Each new restriction chips at Lena’s confidence, but she isn’t the naive newlywed he expects. She has come armed with her own secrets—and questions about a missing woman named Mira whose life appears to have ended where Lena’s honeymoon begins.
Driven by equal parts fear and determination, Lena must untangle James’s ledger of lies before her identity, and perhaps her life, disappears like the brides who came before her. Yet every clue she uncovers leads back to a single, chilling truth: the most dangerous stories are the ones we tell ourselves.
When vows become cages and love is weaponized, how far will Lena go to rewrite the ending James planned for her— and what will she lose when the final lock clicks open?

Leseprobe

Beneath the Vows

She Married the Man of Her Dreams. Or So She Thought.

TURNING POINTS: Twisted Tales for the Bold & Curious

Margot Elise Winters

Copyright © 2025 by Margot Elise Winters

All rights reserved. This book, including all individual stories and original content, is protected under international copyright law. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced, distributed, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without prior written permission from the author, except for brief excerpts used in reviews or academic commentary, which must be properly credited.

Fiction Disclaimer:

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Creative Tools Notice:

Some aspects of this book including cover artwork, illustrations, or other visual and creative elements were developed with the assistance of licensed generative technologies under appropriate commercial-use terms. These elements are original compositions intended solely for this publication.

Thank you for reading this book. I hope you enjoy every page inside.

Table of Contents

Beneath the Vows

Description

Prologue: What She Left Behind

Chapter 1: The Perfect Beginning

Chapter 2: The Cabin in the Woods

Chapter 3: Locked Doors and Unspoken Rules

Chapter 4: The Man Behind the Mask

Chapter 5: The Search for Truth

Chapter 6: Beneath the Vows

Chapter 7: Breaking Free

Epilogue: A New Beginning

Beneath the Vows

Description

Lena Brooks believes she has finally outrun grief when charismatic developer James Collins sweeps her into a whirlwind romance and ferries her to a secluded honeymoon cabin high in the mountains. To friends, their love story reads like a fairy tale. To Lena, it feels like a second chance until the white rose under glass begins to wilt, doors she was told to ignore start thumping at night, and a hidden phone flashes a video of a bride who looks disturbingly familiar.

As winter seals the cabin off from the outside world, James’s tender devotion curdles into practiced control: strict schedules, odd rules, a basement that “isn’t finished.” Each new restriction chips at Lena’s confidence, but she isn’t the naive newlywed he expects. She has come armed with her own secrets and questions about a missing woman named Mira whose life appears to have ended where Lena’s honeymoon begins.

Driven by equal parts fear and determination, Lena must untangle James’s ledger of lies before her identity, and perhaps her life, disappears like the brides who came before her. Yet every clue she uncovers leads back to a single, chilling truth: the most dangerous stories are the ones we tell ourselves.

When vows become cages and love is weaponized, how far will Lena go to rewrite the ending James planned for her and what will she lose when the final lock clicks open?

Prologue: What She Left Behind

There’s something about remote places that makes a person believe in clean slates. Maybe it’s the absence of traffic noise or the way the mountain air feels sharpened, deliberate. Silence like this rearranges your thoughts, edits what you think you need to confess.

The cabin looked exactly like the photos better, even. The trees formed a hushed crown around a gravel drive that curved like a secret. James parked with one hand on the wheel, the other threading through mine, his fingers warm, steady, proprietary.

“You okay?” he asked.

I matched his smile. “Perfect.”

He bought the answer the same way he’d bought the dress, the ring, the myth that two damaged people could stop running simply by saying I do.

Inside, the air smelled of pine and starched linen. Candles flickered on the windowsills while a phonograph played something orchestral and vaguely tragic. At the center of the dining table waited a single white rose sealed under a glass dome. I brushed the dome and laughed. “What is this Beauty and the Beast?”

James didn’t laugh. “Symbolic.” He crossed to the wine rack. The cork popped like a starter pistol.

He’s private, not secretive, I rationalized, yet I felt the way his gaze lingered a beat too long when I asked about cell service.

“You brought your phone, right?” he called. I said yes.

I lied. In truth I’d packed two.

***

It was past midnight when I dug for a charger and found the backup phone instead. Screen flickering, battery dying, one untitled video waiting in “Downloads.” I tapped.

Grainy night-vision green revealed a woman crouched on a concrete floor, wedding dress stained dark at the hem. She lifted her face so like mine the resemblance clipped my breath and mouthed, “He promised. He lied.”

Static burst, then black.

Probably a prank. Probably some creepy file I downloaded during late-night true-crime binges. But the first story I told myself unraveled when I realized the woman’s eyes mirrored my own.

I didn’t tell James. I buried the phone deeper and descended the stairs. He was already at the stove, scrambling eggs that hissed like distant applause.

“Sleep okay?”

“Like a baby.”

“Good. Today’s all about you.” His smile felt less like love, more like verdict.

The white rose in its dome had tilted just slightly, just enough. Bent, as if the night itself had brushed past and whispered: pay attention.

***

Day two, I opened the upstairs closet. Behind flannel shirts waited a garment bag. A white satin gown glimmered through the zipper gap. My pulse stuttered. No one buys two wedding dresses for the same bride.

James found me later. “What were you up to?”

“Looking for a book.”

He accepted the lie or didn’t care. Trust or indifference: either one can kill you if you guess wrong.

That night I dreamed of a windowless room. The video bride knelt on the floor, peeling a mask my face away from her own and holding it out like penance. “Take it back. You know it’s yours.”

I woke gasping. James gathered me, stroking my hair. “You’re safe,” he whispered. Reassurance delivered in the same tone a hunter uses to soothe a wounded fawn.

Somewhere beneath the bed, the old phone buzzed once brief, insistent. I didn’t check it. Not yet.

Because certain truths ask questions you’re not ready to answer and some answers make it impossible to stay, yet even harder to leave.

Chapter 1: The Perfect Beginning

We met on a Wednesday that smelled of rain-shine and roasted chestnuts an amber street shimmering with puddles under stuttering lamps. The crowd parted at the perfect moment, and James stepped through as if a director had cued him. He tipped his umbrella, smiled like he’d been waiting for me all his life. “Do you know the quickest way to the museum?”

I pretended to check my phone. The gallery was closed for renovations, but strangers trust you when you look helpful. “Three blocks up, turn left at the fountain,” I lied.

“That’s the slow way.” His laugh wrapped around us like a warm coat. “Come with me I’ll buy you coffee if I’m wrong.”

Intrusive? Probably. Yet his certainty sluiced through my veins like adrenaline. We darted through side streets lined with shuttered bookshops and steam grates; I led him deliberately on the longest route. No cafés appeared.

“Looks like you owe me,” he teased when we reached the museum’s locked gate.

I shrugged. “Or maybe I just wanted the walk.”

We found a candlelit café that stayed open late on Wednesdays. He ordered espresso; I chose chamomile. Caffeine already patrols my insomnia. Cups cooled as we volleyed backstories under dim bulbs: he cultivated skylines, I curated paintings titles that gleamed on the surface and rusted underneath.

He traced the veins on my hands, said I looked like a Pre-Raphaelite portrait. His eyes flickered regret? hunger? before he caught himself.

I laughed. “I’m just a girl who hangs pictures.”

“Then I’m the man who builds walls for your pictures to hang.” The words landed like an oath.

When the café closed, we walked the bridge over black water. He took my number on a napkin my phone had conveniently died; I like controlling entry points. His fingers brushed mine, electric. A distant ferry horn sobbed. “Careful,” he murmured. “I just found you.”

That echo followed me home, tapping the apartment window with every raindrop. Everybody wants to be seen, I reminded myself, ignoring how quickly his gaze felt invasive.

We texted at dawn caffeine jokes, museum hours. By day three we scheduled dinner; by day five I possessed a key to his loft. A week later I woke to him watching me, unblinking. “I like how still you sleep.”

“It’s the chamomile,” I lied. I haven’t slept deeply since the incident no one mentions.

He proposed truncating courtship. “Stages are arbitrary. When you know, you know.” I feigned hesitation people respect caution but inside, vertigo thrilled: Why does this feel pre-written?

Weekends blurred in open-house tours. In empty rooms he posed me at windows, visualizing built-in shelves. I pressed my palms to cold glass, breath ghosting patterns that faded too fast. Once, I swore he whispered “Mira” soft as dust. When I asked, he pointed at the wall, “Mirror.” I laughed it off; lovers mishear what they fear.

He proposed on a cliff rimmed with screaming gulls. The antique ring bit my finger. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course.” Trust is a currency I hoard.

Wedding prep sprinted: tasting menus, lilac-mothball atelier. The seamstress said the gown felt fated to my frame. James watched from the mirror’s edge, eyes slick with possession. Invitations gleamed silver; we seized a mountain-chapel cancellation. “No sense waiting time conspires.”

Friends called it whirlwind; Mother questioned longevity. I swore James and I were extraordinary omitting midnight calls when his voice cracked, begging for details of my childhood bedroom lock.

Wedding morning reeked of wet stone and pine. I mapped every detail; memory is a weapon. At the altar, James’s gaze ticked from me to his watch. During vows he promised, “I will keep you safe.” Pupils flared predatory flash then smile for the camera. Confetti blurred. At the crowd’s edge, an older woman in navy watched me with grief-sharpened eyes, lifted a hand warning? then vanished in a burst of flashbulbs.

Reception echoed with cliché toasts. Beneath the table James squeezed my knee too hard when a friend joked about speed-run proposals.

***

Dusk. A vintage car wound through bruised-pink clouds. James leaned close. “Just you and me now.”

“Finally.” Freedom often masquerades as surrender.

The cabin emerged from pines timbers charred against twilight. A lantern burned, glass etched with roses. He unlocked the door with a brass key shaped like a cross. His hand trembled brief, like static through bone.

Cedar hush swallowed us. Lock clicked, chain slid. He faced me, eyes glossy as my diamond. “Welcome home.”

I called it perfect. He believed me. First impressions thrive on curated truths; I’m a seasoned curator.

Logs already crackled in the hearth. On the coffee table, a glass dome encased a white rose petals flawless, stem severed. Preserved, or imprisoned? Static snapped when I touched the dome. “Beautiful,” I whispered.

“Symbolic.” Pride or fear flashed, then disappeared. He kissed my knuckles and retreated for a shower.

Alone, I circled the room, cataloguing exits, floor-creaks, sightlines a muscle memory of caution. On the mantel, a silver frame faced the wall. I flipped it: James alone before a lake house, arm curved around invisible company, date eleven months old. Floorboard groaned. I spun.

James, towel around shoulders, water glistening. “Find something interesting?”

“Décor audit.” I returned the frame photo outward. He reversed it, fingertips stroking metal. “Some memories are private.”

Fair. We all keep souvenirs. Mental note: lake house, phantom arm.

He laid a second brass key with a white-rose engraving in my palm. “Opens everything that matters.” Edges bit skin. No blood.

Night thickened. Burgundy wine stained my lips; he probed trivia pet names, curtain colors, locks that turned inside or out. I parceled truth sparingly. Handing someone the combination to every lock is suicide.

Embers dimmed; he carried me upstairs. Moonlight gridded the quilt. He undressed me with reverence, as if porcelain chipped under breath. “Everything I ever wanted,” he whispered. I almost believed.

Sleep dragged me under. Sometime before dawn: soft footfalls, door-silhouette. James stood watching, something metallic glinting in his hand flashlight or letter opener. He noticed my eyes open, smiled, retreated.

He’s protective, I soothed. Checking locks. Rationalization wrapped like a second quilt. Footsteps faded; weight of sleep returned until a phone vibrated inside my suitcase: one pulse, urgent, ignored.

Tomorrow: woods exploration, sundress he loves. I never promised to abandon the spare phone.

Promises bend like stems under glass kept alive, never free. In the next room the white rose drank moonlight, waiting for its cue to bloom or blacken beneath someone’s steady hand.

***

My mother always said a wedding is a stage play: bright lights for the audience, velvet curtains hiding the ropes and pulleys. She didn’t live long enough to see this one, but I felt her breath in every whisper of silk as I slid into the gown. The atelier’s mirrored walls multiplied me a forest of Lenas bending at unfamiliar angles. An assistant pinned the final veil comb and declared me timeless.

Timeless is a flattering word for someone who has learned how to stand very still. I let them fuss until James’s driver arrived. The car gleamed black and sleek, a liquid silhouette against pale gravel. When the door opened, a hush swallowed the street as if the city agreed to pause while I arranged my skirts.