On an island.
Inside a grand hotel, soft lights swayed over gleaming glasses. Wine flashed. Cups clinked. The hall was dressed in elegant luxury, rich enough to choke a man.
The Wedding March drifted through the air, smooth and sweet. But no one had the heart to listen.
Polished shoes stood stiff. Flowing skirts trembled. Inside the wedding hall, guards packed the place in layer after layer, their faces tight and dark, not a trace of ease on them.
The priest recited the vows with a dry, shaking voice. Hoarse. Ugly. Like a man being marched to the chopping block.
The bride and groom were even worse. Their minds were nowhere near the wedding. Their eyes kept moving, darting left and right, watching the guests, all of them uneasy, all of them pale.
Then—
Creak.
The door opened.
Everyone jolted.
The priest stopped dead in the middle of his dull vows. Every eye turned to the door. So did every black gun muzzle.
At the entrance stood a young girl, clutching a bouquet of roses. Her face was full of panic.
The bride saw her and let out a breath. “Little sister, what are you doing here?”
At that, the crowd finally relaxed a little.
So it was family.
At a time like this… she probably would not come.
And right then, a gunshot cracked through the hall.
Bang.
The bride’s body jerked, then fell like a kite with its strings cut, collapsing forever beneath a storm of scattered roses.
The roses turned redder.
The white wrapping paper was dyed a shocking crimson.
In the girl’s hand, the silver-white gun gleamed like Death’s sickle, hooked tight around everyone’s throat.
She had come.
The whole hall exploded into chaos.
The girl curled her lips into a mocking smile, her gaze cold as she watched the guests scramble like rats with their heads down, watched the forest of black gun barrels aimed at her.
A week before the wedding, they had received a notice from the assassin queen White Rose.
On the wedding day, she would take the lives of the bride and groom.
In the confusion, the groom scrambled on all fours and hid behind the priest’s table. He wiped the cold sweat off his forehead, but his gums still chattered. He had thought White Rose would see this lineup and run off scared out of her wits.
Instead, she came.
And she had killed the bride with insulting ease.
After the guests fled, the empty hall turned deathly still.
Vivienne Crane casually picked up a glass of dark red cocktail and took a small sip. Calm. Elegant. As if the guns pointed at her were children’s toys.
“Are you ready?”
Her voice was icy, steeped in killing intent. Mixed with the sweet melody of the Wedding March, it made the skin crawl.
The groom sucked in great mouthfuls of air. His trembling hand shot toward the captain of the bodyguards, ordering him to fire.
Vivienne Crane smiled lightly when she felt the killing intent rise.
Her laugh was crisp, bright, almost pleasant.
To the guards, it sounded like a death knell from the gates of hell.
The captain steadied himself and barked, “Fire!”
The instant the order fell, their vision blurred.
Smoke bomb.
The captain saw his men hesitate and roared, “Don’t stop! Fire, now!”
Their employer was hidden in an absolutely safe spot. Shooting now was no problem.
At once, gunfire tore through the hall.
Shot after shot. Deafening. Wild.
But in that rain of bullets, no scream came from the woman.
Instead, there came a man’s miserable howl.
The captain’s hand shook. He immediately shouted for everyone to cease fire.
By then, the smoke was slowly thinning.
The groom lay still on the floor.
A white rose was pinned to his chest, cruel enough to stab straight into everyone’s eyes.
At midnight, by the sea, a girl stood in simple clothes: blue trousers, white shirt. Who would have guessed that she was the same White Rose, Vivienne Crane, who had walked through layers of guards that morning, killed the groom, and left without a scratch?
Not long after, a pretty young woman hurried over to the shore. She was furious, and the moment she saw Vivienne Crane, she shouted, “Vivienne Crane, haven’t you gone too far this time? You killed him. His father will have every assassin in the world hunting you down.”
Vivienne Crane lazily lifted her eyes and glanced at the brightly lit island behind her. She gave a careless shrug.
“Good. Life could use a little fun.”
“You…” Chloe Wycliffe stared at her, half angry, half helpless. Then her tone suddenly softened. Her eyes turned wet. “For me… was there really any need to push yourself this far?”
“What nonsense.” Vivienne Crane snorted, anger rising in her chest. “You’re one of my people. They played with your feelings. Just taking the lives of that trash man and that vile woman at the wedding was already letting them off easy.”
A tremor passed through Chloe Wycliffe’s eyes.
Then she threw herself into Vivienne Crane’s arms and burst into tears.
“Nono… I knew it. You’re the only one who truly cares about me. I…”
Vivienne Crane patted her back, helping her catch her breath. Her voice softened.
“Fool. We’re friends…”
Then all at once, a savage pain tore through her chest.
Vivienne Crane’s face changed. She shoved Chloe Wycliffe away in disbelief.
She looked down.
The white cloth over her chest had already been soaked red.
When she looked up again, Chloe Wycliffe’s eyes were full of triumph, bright with the joy of a scheme finally working.
“Why?” Vivienne Crane pressed a hand to her chest, her voice raw with pain.
Chloe Wycliffe laughed, not bothering to hide the contempt in her eyes.
“Vivienne Crane, you were clever all your life. Too bad when it came to feelings, you were dull as wood. I never liked that scum. I was only with him because he looked like Boss. But Boss likes you. As long as you were alive, I would never have a chance.”
She stared straight at Vivienne Crane, every word sharp as a blade.
“So go die.”
Without a shred of hesitation, Chloe Wycliffe shoved her into the sea.
Vivienne Crane fell into the freezing water.
The sea wrapped around her, cold and black. In her mind, over and over, there was only Chloe Wycliffe’s final look—that merciless gaze, full of hatred, as if she wished her condemned beyond all redemption.