The wedding is over.
My beautiful bridesmaid dress is soaked in blood. Bright crimson patterning the white. The hem ragged and torn. The tulle skirt missing and the strapless bodice ripped. My tiara is long gone. My hair stiffened with dried blood, not mousse. My legs are crumpled beneath, unable to move. I’m like a ragdoll.
I’m lying here in this circle of trees by the black water. They call it a beauty spot. I can’t see any beauty today. Only death. The magpies warned us.
Gregory is beside me, his sun-streaked, fair hair red with blood, his face white as a ghost. Shocked and injured again. It’s my fault. I want to hug him, hold him close, tell him I didn’t mean to let this happen to him. But I can’t move. Anyway, he probably hates me.
Is it over? Don’t ask me.
In the distance, I can hear emergency sirens. Has everyone found out? Has my daddy? His name is Samson Smith. He comes from a long line of champion fighters.
My name is Sammy-Jo Smith. I’m the only girl to have inherited the Smith fighting skills. Sometimes I love it, but now I hate it. I’m too fast, too strong, even in my Jimmy Choo heels. It’s brought me here, to this place of death.
It began three days ago with a fight. Seems that for me everything always begins with a fight …