The glittering sunshine of San Francisco cascaded upon the Californian streets, where the salty scent of the ocean lingered in the air. Our home, nestled in a middle-class suburban neighborhood of Oakland, was filled with an unusual commotion today. The lifestyle here—where people spend weekends at the beach, linger for hours in coffee shops, and post their perfect lives on social media—seemed to have vanished from our household today. I'm Evelyn, nineteen years old, studying at the University of California, Berkeley. My major is Art History, but these days, my life feels more like a thriller movie than a college experience. I have a best friend, Henry, but today wasn't the day to think about him. Today was my older sister Elisha's wedding—a wedding that felt more like a nightmare than a dream.
Our house was a typical American suburban home: two stories, with a front lawn where neighbors walked their dogs, and a backyard equipped with a barbecue grill. But the atmosphere inside today was something entirely different. The living room was being decorated with flowers—white roses and lilies, ordered from a local Californian florist. Mom, whose name is Emily, was busy. She's a real estate agent, but the greed in her eyes was plainly visible—the very reason behind this wedding. "Evelyn, go check if Elisha is ready," Mom called out to me, her voice carrying that commanding tone that always ran the household. Dad, a public school teacher named John, was quietly making coffee in the kitchen. He's a gentleman, but he never has a say in this house. He just silently endures everything, like those California teachers who participate in union strikes but remain silent at home.
My brother, Alex, seventeen years old, was playing video games in his room. He wanted to stay away from all this. I headed upstairs to Elisha's room. Elisha, twenty-one years old, had been trying to become a graphic designer, but today she was dressed in a bridal gown—a white lace dress purchased from a high-end boutique in San Francisco. But there was no happiness on her face. She sat before the mirror, eyes red, face swollen. "Ev, I can't do this," she whispered, her voice trembling. I placed my hand on her shoulder. "Elisha, please... don't cry. Mom has made up her mind."
The groom, Mr. Richard Blackwell, was a famous businessman. In California's Silicon Valley, he owned companies—tech investments, real estate, and something that existed in rumors: a shadow company that handled contracts, but what kind of contracts? People whispered that he was connected to the mafia, making deals on the dark web. He was twice Elisha's age—around forty-two years old. We'd heard he had children, and his first wife... she had mysteriously disappeared. Some said it was an accident, but local news carried rumors that he had killed her. Mom had been bought with money—a promise to clear our house mortgage and a large downtown apartment. "This is good for the family," Mom would say, but Elisha's heart was breaking.
Guests began arriving at the house—neighbors, relatives who had driven from Los Angeles. California culture is like this: weddings are grand affairs, held on beaches or in vineyards, but this one was at home because Blackwell had insisted—keep it low-key. Music was playing, classic American wedding songs like an instrumental version of "Here Comes the Bride." But looking at Elisha's face, it felt more like a funeral. I fixed her makeup, but her tears wouldn't stop. "He's cruel, Ev. I've read about him—he ruins people in business wars. Who knows, he might..." She fell silent. I hugged her, but fear crept into my mind as well. Blackwell's company, Blackwell Enterprises, was a tech firm on the surface, but underground rumors suggested it organized contract killings—for high-profile targets. In California's business world, he was a shark who drowned his competitors.
Afternoon arrived, and the procession was expected in the evening. In California, weddings often take place at sunset, during the golden hour for photographs. But today's sunset felt dark. Guests were chatting—catering was from local food trucks: tacos, burgers, and wine. Mom was greeting everyone with a fake smile plastered on her face. Dad remained silent, just shaking hands with guests. Elisha was locked in her room, crying. I was with her. "Please, Ev, stop me. I want to run away," she said. But where to? We were middle class—no private jets, no hidden funds. Life in California is expensive; rent, tuition, everything. Mom's greed had us bound.
Suddenly, the sound of cars came from outside. The procession had arrived—black limos, accompanied by security guards. Blackwell emerged: tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a suit, but his eyes were cold, like a predator's. He was accompanied by some assistants, and rumors suggested they were bodyguards—ex-military, handling his dark business operations. The ceremony began. In our backyard, where we normally barbecue, there was now a small stage. The pastor read the vows. Elisha's voice was trembling. "I do," she said, but her tears were falling. Blackwell smiled, but it was a cruel smile—as if he was closing a business deal, not getting married.
At the reception, people were dancing—California style, a mix of hip-hop and pop. But Elisha sat in a corner, pale. I went to her. "Sis, it'll be okay," I said, though I knew it was a lie. Blackwell approached her, taking her hand. "My dear, time to go," he said, his voice low and threatening. It was time for the farewell. Elisha began crying, hysterically. She clung to Mom. "Please, Mom, don't send me." But Mom pushed her away. "This is good for you, Elisha. He's rich, your life in California will be set." Dad stood at a distance, eyes downcast.
Seeing Elisha's distress, Mom made a decision. "Evelyn, you go too for a few days. Take care of your sister. She's newly married, don't leave her alone." I was shocked. "Mom, but my college..." "Just a few days," Mom said. Blackwell nodded, as if this had been planned. Elisha felt a bit relieved seeing me. We got into the limo—Blackwell, Elisha, and me. The car started, heading from Oakland toward Blackwell's mansion, which was Beverly Hills style but located outside San Francisco, in the hills. The journey was silent. Elisha's sobs, Blackwell's business talk on the phone—"Handle the contract, no loose ends." Suspense filled my mind: What is this man? And what will Elisha's future be?
The car climbed toward the hills, where California's nightlife was beginning—city lights twinkling in the distance. But for us, this was the beginning of a dark journey. Elisha gripped my hand, fear in her eyes. "Thank you, Ev. But I'm scared." Blackwell turned to look back, his eyes narrowing. "Welcome to the family," he said, and his smile sent a chill down my spine. Was this a marriage, or a trap? I didn't know, but something was wrong—very wrong.
San Francisco nights have always seemed mysterious—fog that covers the Golden Gate Bridge, and those luxury mansions built on the hills where rich people hide their secrets. Our limo finally stopped before a massive gate that opened automatically. Blackwell Mansion—this name alone created whispers in California's elite society. This place wasn't like Beverly Hills, but near Pacific Heights outside San Francisco, where views are worth millions of dollars. The house was a modern architectural masterpiece: glass walls offering ocean views, an infinity pool in the backyard, and security cameras in every corner. This is how California's rich live—creating fortresses in the name of privacy.
Blackwell opened the door, his eyes still narrow. "Welcome home, my dear," he said to Elisha, but his voice lacked the warmth that newly married couples should have. Elisha was still trembling, her tears dried but her face pale. I held her hand, supporting her. We stepped down, the cool night breeze touching our faces. Blackwell showed us the way, his steps confident, as if he was heading to a business meeting. "Follow me," he said, and we entered that magnificent entrance. The lobby had marble floors, crystal chandeliers sparkling with lights, and expensive art pieces on the walls—like abstract paintings that Silicon Valley tech tycoons collect. The house smelled rich—expensive perfume and fresh flowers. But the silence inside was frightening, as if some secret was hidden.
I supported Elisha as we climbed a grand staircase. Blackwell opened a double-door room—the master bedroom, decorated like a honeymoon suite. Red rose petals were scattered on the bed, a champagne bottle in an ice bucket, and dim lighting that should have seemed romantic but felt dark here. This is how wealthy weddings are in California—Instagram-worthy, but often fake in real life. "This is your room," Blackwell told Elisha, his eyes scanning her as if checking a property. Elisha nodded, but her body language was screaming—help. I made her sit on the bed, placing my hand on her shoulder. "Relax, sis. I'm here," I whispered. She was anxious, her eyes fearful. "Ev, please don't go," she said, but then Blackwell entered, his suit still perfect.
He smiled at me, but it was a cold smile. "Evelyn, your room is next door. Goodnight." I looked at Elisha, who was clinging to my hand. I reassured her, "I'm just in the next room. Call me if you need anything." She started crying, but I stepped out, hearing the door close. The hallway lights were dim, the house so large it echoed. I entered the adjacent room—a guest room, but filled with luxury. A beautiful king-size bed, silk sheets, and windows with a view of city lights. I lay down on it, pulling the blanket over me. The clock showed 11 PM. California nights run late—people go to clubs, but today I was exhausted. Still, my mind wouldn't settle. "Let me check on sis once," I thought. I got up, quietly stepping out.