SEVENTY-TWO.

The rapid bang of gunshots sends people racing towards the mansion.

A man falls dead on the grass and I have to jump over his still body.

Or risk tripping over his limbs that are splayed out beside him, loose and bent where he lies in a puddle of his own blood.

My father and Aces’ henchmen all dressed in black suits, yank their concealed guns from inside their jackets free and take aim at the gunmen who are dressed as servers.

Someone did a shitty job screening everyone who entered the mansion only hours ago.

And because of their delinquency, people are dying right, left and centre.

More people plummet to the ground. Some of them are screaming in terror, anger, and pain and others just lay there motionless with blood pooling on their clothes.

“Come on, Mrs. Ripley. We need to take cover.” Holden yells over the gunshots ringing in the air.

I gulp, doing my best to keep up with him in my heels and the wedding gown that clings to me like a second layer of skin.

Unable to mutte