Chapter 3 - THE UNINVITED GUEST
By Sunday afternoon, I was back on my feet, staying at a luxury high-rise suite downtown that my corporate accounts maintained for visiting international designers. I had traded my hospital gown for a structured black turtleneck and tailored trousers that successfully hid the burn dressings wrapping my forearms.
My attorney, Marcus Vance—a shark in a bespoke Brioni suit who specialized in high-net-worth corporate litigation and estate protection—sat across from my glass coffee table, reviewing the forensic report Hayes had compiled.
"This isn't just arson, Mave," Marcus said, adjusting his tortoiseshell glasses. "This is attempted second-degree murder, aggravated destruction of property, and conspiracy to obstruct justice involving your parents. The video evidence is bulletproof."
"I don't want to rush the arrest," I said, swirling a glass of ice water. "If the police pick them up today, my mother will immediately spin this as a tragic family dispute caused by my 'unstable mental state.' I want the foundation completely eroded beneath them first."
Marcus grinned slowly—the dangerous, predatory smile that made him worth two thousand dollars an hour. "What do you have in mind?"
"Fallon’s wedding is scheduled for next Saturday at the historic Biltmore-adjacent estate downtown—funded almost entirely by Beckett’s family and whatever high-interest loans my parents could fraudulently secure using my name as a co-signer."
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Ah. The financial entanglement."
"Exactly. My father used my corporate credit rating to secure the catering and venue deposits while I was expanding the business last year. If I revoke those guarantees and freeze the corporate accounts tied to their names, the wedding collapses forty-eight hours before the ceremony."
"Consider the financial tourniquet applied," Marcus said, pulling out his tablet. "I’ll have our forensic accountants flag every fraudulent authorization by Monday morning. But what about the wedding guests? Three hundred of Charlotte's elite."
"Let them arrive," I said softly. "Let them dress up, fly in from Paris, and sit in the pews. That’s when the real show begins."
The knock at my hotel door interrupted us.
It wasn't room service. Through the peephole, I saw a familiar silhouette pacing in the hallway.
Fallon.
She looked frantic. Her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, her designer sunglasses shoved up onto her head, and her nails dug anxiously into her palms. She hadn’t expected me to vanish from the hospital. She had expected a broken, compliant sister hiding in shame.
I gestured for Marcus to step into the private bedroom, then smoothly opened the door.
Fallon lunged forward, ready to scream, but the words died in her throat when she saw me standing tall, completely composed, looking down at her like she was an insignificant bug on my shoe.
"Mave," she gasped, stepping into the foyer uninvited. "Thank God. You left the hospital. Mom and Dad were losing their minds. Why didn't you call us?"
I crossed my arms, wincing only slightly as the gauze shifted against my skin. "Why would I call the people who stood outside my hospital room conspiring to cover up an arson investigation?"
Fallon’s face drained of color. For a split second, her composure fractured. Then, the toxic, narcissistic defense mechanism kicked in.
"What are you talking about?" she stammered, her voice pitching upward. "You're delusional! You hit your head in the fire! The doctors said you suffered smoke inhalation and hallucinations—"
"The fire, Fallon?" I interrupted, my voice cutting through her lies like a scalpel. "You mean the fire you started when you hurled an antique oil lamp into my archives because I wouldn't hand over my home for your weekend party?"
"I didn't—it was an accident! Xander said the lamp got knocked over—"
"Xander wasn't holding the lamp, Fallon. You were. And the thermal security cameras recorded every single second of it."
The silence in the suite became absolute. You could hear the faint hum of the air conditioning unit. Fallon stared at me, her chest heaving, the mask of sweet, entitled innocence completely disintegrating to reveal a desperate, cornered animal.
"You're lying," she whispered, her voice shaking. "You're lying to ruin my wedding. You’ve always hated that I was happy! You’ve always hated that Beckett chose me!"
"Beckett chose a fantasy," I replied coldly. "And by next weekend, he’s going to find out exactly what kind of monster he’s marrying."
Fallon lunged forward, her hands clawing toward my shoulders. "You take that back! If you ruin this wedding, I swear to God, Mave, I will—"
Before she could finish her threat, the bedroom door clicked open. Marcus Vance stepped out, holding a thick manila folder stamped with state seal watermarks and federal legal notices.
He didn't yell. He didn't threaten. He just looked at Fallon with professional disdain.
May you like
"Ms. Carter," Marcus said smoothly, handing her a formal legal summons. "You are hereby served with a restraining order, a multi-million-dollar civil suit for arson and property destruction, and a notice of impending criminal indictment. Have a lovely wedding."
Fallon stared at the papers in her hands, her breath catching in her throat, as the reality of her total destruction finally began to sink in.
