I'm hoping for some Grade-A domestic psychological thriller shenanigans, and I got... well, a lot of forced atmospheric melodrama and narrative flimflam. The premise is deliciously preposterous: our protagonist, Bride-to-Be, gets shipped off to her fiancé Stephen’s ancestral lair, Shadowmoor Lodge, a place whose name is clearly lifted directly from a Scooby-Doo episode, six days before the wedding. It’s deep in the Surrey Hills, naturally, with zero signal, because of course the impending existential terror must be unfettered by basic cellular connectivity.
The first 50 pages are an absolute masterclass in anxiety-fueled projection. The heroine is drowning in this palpable dread, which, to be fair, is perfectly rational because Stephen’s family are pure, unadulterated nightmare fuel. His mother is a controlling harpy, and the whole clan stares at her like she’s a particularly juicy main course at a private hunting retreat. The atmosphere is so thick with malevolence you could spread it on toast. But then, the titular lie arrives: she opens her suitcase and finds clothes belonging to Charlotte Walker, a woman who conveniently vanished a week ago. This is where my internal monologue went from "ooh, creepy" to "oh, come on." The sheer implausibility of that specific piece of clothing swapping happening is a gaping maw of a plot hole that demanded I suspend not just disbelief, but my entire cognitive function.
The book is an absolute torrent of red herrings. Every character is a caricature of suspicion: the taciturn brother, the shifty maid, the overly polished fiancé, Stephen, who is clearly compensating for being an utterly insipid love interest by being menacing. The vocabulary is where this thing really tried to flex—the writing itself is polished, trying to give the psychological suspense a veneer of literary gravitas, but the plot mechanics are flimsy at best, built entirely on people refusing to have a single rational conversation. It’s like watching a train wreck where every passenger is actively throwing banana peels under the wheels.
Was it a fun, page-turning diversion? Sure. Was it a nuanced thriller? Honey, please. It’s the literary equivalent of a dramatic, high-contrast Instagram filter, looks good, but it's totally obscuring the flaws. I need my thrillers to be taut and logically inexorable, not reliant on characters having the observational skills of a potted plant.
#TheWeddingLies #NetGalley