Thirty-two whale bones are gnawing at Evelyn's ribs.
The moonlight casts the pearlescent embroidery of Vera Wang's custom wedding dress into a blue-gray color, and the twelve layers of Spanish lace tighten her chest like a living thing. The night wind on the cliff carries the smell of gasoline, lifting the three-meter-long antique lace veil. The Belgian bobbin lace from 1890 is now wrapped around her throat, as if the devil's tongue is licking her arteries.
"You really should let Vogue see how beautiful you are now." Nathaniel stroked the diamond necklace between her collarbones with his fingertips wearing black lambskin gloves, "I have thought of the headline for tomorrow's headline - 'The daughter of a San Francisco oil tycoon accidentally fell off a cliff on the eve of her wedding'."
Evelyn's Chopard earrings swayed in the wind, and the platinum claw setting became a barb that pierced into the wound. Seven hours ago, the same hands were holding her in the bathtub of the Waldorf Presidential Suite, champagne flowing along the bruises on her chest. Now the same hands were playing with the Tiffany six-claw diamond ring, the word "Eternity" engraved on the inside of the ring was stained with dark red blood.
"You forgot my father's personal forensic team." She pushed the surgical scissors hidden in the fishtail skirt half an inch further, which were stolen from the Mayo Clinic three days ago. The morphine for her mother's chemotherapy swayed in her handbag, and the sound of glass medicine bottles colliding mixed with the roar of the waves.
Nathaniel suddenly grabbed the veil and pulled her close, spraying cologne mixed with the smell of blood behind her ears: "Honey, guess why the fire chief suddenly changed his golf club last week?" He took out a Zippo lighter, and the flame illuminated the cherry-colored lip print on the collar - that was not the nude pink color she used.
The waves roared at the reefs ninety meters below. Evelyn counted the seconds beside her ears. Five years ago, when this man knelt in front of the Tiffany blue box, the seconds were also so deafening. When the lighter drew a parabola in the air, she suddenly remembered the smell of gas she smelled during the engagement party rehearsal - it turned out that it was not a kitchen mistake.
The moment the flames jumped up to the hem of her skirt, Evelyn did two things: cut the veil wrapped around her neck with surgical scissors, and smashed the morphine bottle against Nathaniel's knees. As she fell, she saw the burning pearls burst like sparks. Those South Sea pearls that her father bought at the auction really became the Milky Way buried with her.
In the last moment before the severe pain tore her consciousness, a second cluster of flames lit up above the cliff. The figure in a Chanel tweed suit held a torch, and the tulip birthmark on his chest stretched its petals in the firelight. The scarlet pierced into the retina, hotter than the blood pouring out of her throat.
Five years later in the West Side of Chicago, the plastic surgeon's scalpel cut Lilith's cheekbone for the seventh time.
"Final adjustment." Dr. Kovac's voice was mixed with the sound of metal instruments colliding. "Remember, hippocampal inhibitors must be injected as punctually as Botox." The blood-stained gauze fell on her bare shoulders, and the heavy rain outside the window washed the neon sign of "Wedding Custom Studio".
The mirror reflected a strange Eastern European face - the cold white skin of Caucasians, the deep eye sockets of Slavic people. Only she knew that every time the carbonized vocal cords vibrated, the wedding dress steel bones embedded in the flesh and blood resonated. The bloody wedding dress on the sewing machine was dripping red wax, just like the blood that flowed into the San Francisco Bay along the skirt.
The old TV suddenly burst into snow noise, and CNBC was broadcasting the news that Blackwood Group acquired Condé Nast Group. The camera swept across the wedding ring on Nathaniel's ring finger, and the tulip diamond earrings on his earlobe reflected a strange purple light under the flash. Lilith's nails dug into the scabbed burn scars on her palms, where a micro-recorder was hidden - recording the entire conversation on the Devil's Corner cliff five years ago.
"It's time to change the bandage." The nurse pulled off the gauze on her face, and the moment the fresh air rushed into her nose, the smell of rotting and burnt meat surged up from the depths of her memory. The hum of sewing machines came from the basement of the plastic surgery clinic, and twenty blood-red wedding dresses floated in the dark room, each with a different woman's hair sewn on the waistband.
When the first wisp of morning mist appeared on the Chicago River, Lilith hummed "Here Comes the Bride" with her burned vocal cords. In the rhythm of the sewing needle penetrating the satin, she heard the sound of the waves on the Devil's Corner cliff and the applause of the Fifth Avenue fashion show overlap. Don't be impatient, dear - she pinned the blood-stained tulip earrings on the waistband of the wedding dress - when I light your groom's suit on the catwalk, you will remember every steel bone I sewed into the hem tonight.