The night before our wedding, I woke up to the sound of some one moaning.
At first, I thought I was dreaming. But when I turned to the side, my fiancée wasn’t in bed beside me.

The sound was coming from the toilet.
Curious — and a bit uneasy — I got up and walked toward the bathroom. The door was slightly open, and through the opening, I saw her sitting on the toilet seat, her legs wide apart, her head tilted back, a faint smile on her face.
She was moaning.

Slowly. Repeatedly. Like someone was touching her.
But there was no one else there.
No toys. No phone. Just her.
As I stepped closer, the moment she noticed me, she suddenly composed herself — like nothing had happened. She didn’t say a word. Not even a glance. Just flushed and walked past me back to bed.
I stood there, confused, trying to process what I had just witnessed.
It disturbed me deeply — especially because she was the one who insisted we remain celibate until marriage.
We had respected that. Bathed together. Slept in the same bed. But she never once acted like she wanted intimacy.

Now, on the night before we were to become husband and wife, I was seeing a side of her I couldn’t understand.
THE WEDDING MORNING
Early the next morning — our wedding day — she entered our shared room and said something that caught me off guard.
“I’ll like to have my own private room after the wedding,” she said flatly, almost like a command.
I was stunned.

“We’re getting married today. Why would we stay in separate rooms?” I asked.
She frowned, and in a flash, her mood darkened. “If you can’t respect that, then maybe this marriage shouldn’t happen.”

I pleaded with her not to ruin our day over something so strange. She eventually agreed — or at least pretended to — and we went ahead with the ceremony.

THE WEDDING NIGHT
Later that night, I dressed up and quietly approached her room, eager to finally be with my wife.
But her door was locked.
I knocked gently.
No response.
I knocked again. Still silence.

I stood there for minutes, unsure if she was sleeping or ignoring me. Eventually, I gave up and returned to my room, convincing myself she was just exhausted.

THE NEXT MORNING
When she stepped out of her room the next morning, I froze.
She had bruises all over her face and arms.
“Babe, what happened to you?” I asked.
She smiled casually. “Oh, I fell while trying to take off my shoes last night.”
I didn’t want to accuse her of lying, but something felt off.
Later, as she turned to get something from her bag, her blouse shifted — and that’s when I saw it.

A mark on her back.
Long. Deep. Red.
Like a whip had struck her.
“Are you sure it was just a fall?” I asked again, my voice now filled with worry.

She glanced at me and laughed. “Yes, you worry too much.”

That evening, I called her to my room. I wanted us to finally share the moment we’d been waiting for. To consummate the marriage.
But from the moment I tried to kiss her, she kept shifting her head away. Dodging my lips. Avoiding my touch.

“You know we’re married now, right?” I asked, staring into her unreadable eyes.
She sighed. “I’m not in the mood. Can we do it another time?”
Then, without another word, she walked out.
And just like that… I was left with more questions than ever.
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