THE NIGHT THE STARS WENT SILENT

Gunfire ripped through the villa like a thunderclap.

The music stopped, screams tore through the air, and crystal chandeliers shattered, raining down glass and light.

Mariana froze at the center of it all, her wedding night a ghostly blur as chaos erupted around her.

Juan’s grip tightened around her wrist, dragging her behind a pillar as bullets struck marble and splintered wood.

The scent of gunpowder overpowered the flowers that had moments ago filled the room with sweetness.

“Get down!” Juan barked, shielding her as the guards returned fire.

But his voice was drowned by the chaos, the roar of guns, the shouts of men, and the desperate cries of guests scrambling for cover.

She watched in horror as one of the gunmen burst through the glass doors, face masked, eyes hollow.

Pedro’s men intercepted, firing in quick bursts that sent the intruder crashing into the fountain.

Blood mingled with champagne and rose petals, staining everything in sight.

Juan moved like a man possessed, pulling Mariana behind him, his weapon drawn.

He fired at the shadows, every shot echoing with fury. But there were too many.

Amidst the chaos, Juan pulled out his phone and made a quick call, requesting for his men to come as he was under attack.

From the balcony above, Nicolas Vega’s voice carried through the smoke. Smooth. Cold. Familiar.

“Did you really think you could walk away from me, Juan?”

The sound of that voice froze her blood.

Juan looked up, eyes narrowing. “Vega.”

Mariana turned, searching the haze.

And then she saw him, the man who had haunted every whispered deal, every restless night.

Dressed in black, with the faintest smile curling at his lips, Nicolas Vega stood watching like the devil came to collect a soul.

“This is your wedding gift,” he said softly.

The next sound came faster than lightning—a single, sharp crack.

Juan’s body jerked.

A commotion outside the house, and the sound of cars drew attention as gunfire erupted, targeting Nicolas' men who were standing guard.

One of Nicolas' men glanced out and informed his boss, "They're here, boss.

“Juan's men have arrived."

After the shot, Nicolas left and ordered his men to finish the job.

For one eternal heartbeat, Mariana couldn’t understand what had happened.

The world slowed, sound muted. Her eyes followed the trail of red blooming across his chest, spreading through the white of his shirt like ink in water.

“Juan?”

He stumbled.

She caught him before he hit the floor, her fingers trembling as she pressed against the wound.

“No, no, no—stay with me!”

His hand found her cheek, cold and slick with blood.

“Mariana… mi vida…” His voice was barely a whisper. “Don’t… let them win.”

Tears blurred her vision as she shook her head.

“We’ll get help! Just hold on!”

But his lips parted in a final breath that never came.

His eyes dimmed, the warmth in them extinguished, leaving only stillness.

And in that stillness, Mariana felt something inside her die.

Around her, the chaos raged—screams, footsteps, the sound of burning fabric and shattering glass—but she heard nothing.

Only the pounding of her own heart, breaking with every second that passed.

“Juan…” she whispered, pressing her forehead against his. “You promised me forever.”

The villa burned behind her, smoke curling toward the heavens as if carrying their vows away.

The world that had once been filled with laughter and music had turned to ash.

Pedro found her minutes later, kneeling beside Juan's body; despite being the mole who sold out his boss, he felt pity for Mariana and didn't want her to die.

Juan's body lay lifeless, his suit was torn, and his face was streaked with soot and blood.

Pedro called out for Mariana.

“Señorita, we have to go. Now!”

She didn’t move. Her fingers were still curled around Juan’s.

“Mariana!” he shouted this time, grabbing her shoulders.

“They’ll kill us if we stay here; there are too many of them.”

Something flickered in her eyes, not grief this time, but something sharper, darker.

A quiet fury that burned cold and steady.

She let Pedro pull her to her feet, but before she left, she pressed a kiss to Juan’s lips.

“They will pay for this,” she whispered.

Outside, the villa was collapsing into flames.

The night sky glowed red, the air thick with smoke and the smell of death.

Sirens wailed in the distance, but to Mariana, they were meaningless.

All that mattered now lay in the dirt behind her: the man who had loved her, protected her, and believed in a peace that would never exist.

As they sped away in the car, Pedro’s knuckles were white around the steering wheel, and Mariana sat in silence.

Her dress was soaked in blood, his blood, and she didn’t bother wiping it away.

“Who was it?” she asked finally, her voice low and flat.

Pedro hesitated. “Vega. His men. They wanted to send a message.”

Mariana’s eyes shifted to the window, watching the flames fade in the distance. “Then I’ll send one back.”

Pedro turned sharply toward her. “Mariana, no. Juan never wanted you involved in this world. He….”

She cut him off, her voice cold. “Juan is dead.

And the woman he wanted me to be died with him.”

Silence fell between them, heavy and final.

Hours later, they reached the safe house on the outskirts of Cartagena.

The place was dimly lit and isolated, the air heavy with humidity and dust.

Mariana walked inside, her steps slow but sure. She went straight to the mirror, staring at her reflection.

The diamonds on her necklace glinted dully beneath the weak light.

Her face was pale, streaked with tears and blood, and her eyes were hollow yet burning.

She reached for Juan's gun, then picked it up, the very gun Pedro had recovered from the chaos.

She held it in both hands; it felt heavier than she expected.

Her fingers trembled only once before steadying.

“You wanted peace, Juan,” she whispered. “I wanted that too.

But peace died tonight.”

She turned to Pedro. “Get me everything we have on Nicolas Vega.

His men. His routes. His allies. I want to know where he sleeps, where he hides, and who protects him.”

Pedro swallowed hard. “Mariana… this path… it’ll change you.”

“I’ve already changed.”

Her voice didn’t waver.

She walked to the window, staring out at the horizon where the first light of dawn crept over the sea.

In the quiet hours after the operation, when the silence was thicker than the night air.

The news reached him before dawn.

Nicolas Vega stood by the balcony of his penthouse suite in Bogotá, a half-empty glass of whiskey in his hand.

The skyline stretched before him, cold, glittering, and indifferent.

Below, the city breathed like a sleeping beast.

Behind him, one of his men entered quietly. “Sir,” the man said, keeping his eyes low.

“It’s done. Juan Perez is dead.”

Vega didn’t turn immediately.

He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching it catch the faint morning light.

“And the girl?”

The hesitation was small, but he caught it.

“She escaped. Pedro got her out.”

A muscle in Vega’s jaw tightened.

He took a slow sip, then set the glass down with deliberate calm.

“You let her walk away?”

“She won’t be a problem. She’s just…”

The man didn’t finish.

Vega’s pistol barked once, the sound echoing like thunder in the marble room. The body hit the floor with a dull thud.

He sighed. “You were saying?”

He stepped over the corpse and walked back to the balcony, slipping the gun into his pocket.

Outside, the city was waking, horns blaring, the hum of traffic rising like a pulse. He smiled faintly.

“Mariana Rojas,” he murmured, testing her name on his tongue.

“The woman who thought she could steal my partner’s heart and make him forget where he belonged.”

He glanced at the blood seeping toward his shoes and chuckled softly. “I suppose she’ll learn now.

No one survives my game.”

Yet something in his chest tightened, a whisper, faint but there, a memory flickering to life like a glance through old photographs.

He remembered he’d seen her before, once years ago, in a crowded ballroom.

Her laughter had carried across the room, light and free, untouched by the rot of their world.

Even then, he’d thought she was too beautiful for Juan’s shadowed hands.

Now, that same woman was alive, angry, broken, and dangerous.

And for the first time in a long while, Nicolas Vega felt something that wasn’t control It was curiosity.

He raised his glass once more, eyes fixed on the sunrise.

“To the widow,” he said softly.

“Let’s see what kind of monster grief makes of her.”

The waves crashed softly, mocking the violence that had just happened and had torn Mariana’s world apart.

And as the sun rose, its light touched her face not with warmth, but with cold resolve.

That morning, Mariana buried her heart alongside Juan.

By nightfall, she had become something else entirely.

Not a bride.

Not a victim.

A weapon.

From that day on, Mariana Rojas' name inspired terror, not sympathy.

She was the bloodstained bride, vengeance personified, her wedding night forever etched in violence, her desire for revenge burning brighter than any marital flame.