Jake and I planned our romantic trip to the south of France to unwind from all the stress of organising our wedding and enjoy some blissful, sun-soaked days, just the two of us. But when we return to the villa after a day exploring the stunning countryside, our dream holiday is turned upside down. Because there, on the beautiful antique rug, is the body of the man everyone saw Jake arguing with in the town square just this morning ... I stop breathing as I take in the scene. The footprints in the same tread as Jake's trainers. The knife I used at breakfast lying near the body, covered in my fingerprints. I feel dizzy, reaching out for Jake as my knees tremble. He holds me upright, saying nothing. Is someone trying to frame us for this death? If they are, they've set us up flawlessly. And now we have a choice to make. Call the police and risk everything - or get rid of the body and hope nobody ever finds out ... I'd give anything to go back to the stress of wedding planning, because now I feel nothing but terror. Who would do something like this? Are we next to die? And why - as I look at my pale, sweating fiance - do I wonder if he knows more than he's letting on ...?
