Chapter 5 - THE BRIDE IN SHATTERED GLASS
Saturday morning arrived with the bright, unforgiving clarity of late autumn.
The historic estate downtown—a sprawling southern mansion with white columns and manicured lawns—was supposed to be hosting the social event of the decade. Instead, it looked like the staging ground for a corporate liquidation sale.
Marcus Vance and I sat parked across the street in a tinted black SUV, watching the unfolding chaos through high-powered binoculars.
Guests in designer tuxedos and floor-length evening gowns stood clustered in small, bewildered groups on the front sidewalk. Luxury Mercedes and BMWs were turning around in the driveway as valets turned them away. The floral arches from Paris were nowhere to be found; instead, a solitary delivery truck was unloading plain folding chairs and cheap plastic tables because the premium rentals had been canceled for non-payment.
"Look at the bride," Marcus murmured, handing me the binoculars.
I raised them to my eyes.
Standing on the mansion’s grand front porch was Fallon.
She wore her multi-thousand-dollar custom wedding gown, but the illusion of perfection was entirely shattered. Her hair was half-undone, her mascara was smeared down her cheeks from violent sobbing, and she was screaming frantically at a flustered wedding coordinator who was holding a clipboard and shaking his head.
Beckett stood a few feet away, looking shell-shocked. His tuxedo jacket was unbuttoned, his tie was loose, and he was staring at his phone as if reading a death sentence.
"What happened to Beckett?" I asked quietly.
"Everything," Marcus replied with a smug grin. "Our financial disclosures reached his email inbox at 6:00 AM today. Complete with documentation of your parents' fraudulent loan attempts using your corporate credit, and copies of the police summons for Fallon’s arson charge."
My breath hitched. "He knows about the fire?"
"He knows everything," Marcus said. "Including the fact that his lovely bride tried to burn down your studio with you inside it. Let's just say Beckett values his personal safety slightly more than high-society status."
As we watched, Beckett slammed his phone into his pocket, turned his back on Fallon, and walked down the steps toward a waiting Uber. Fallon shrieked his name, lunged forward to grab his arm, and tripped over her own bridal train, crashing hard onto the concrete porch.
The white silk dress—symbolizing purity and new beginnings—was instantly stained with dirt and mud.
My mother rushed forward to scoop her up, while my father stood frozen near the front door, looking like a man who had just aged ten years in ten minutes.
It was a masterclass in total, unmitigated ruin.
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"Should we make our grand entrance?" Marcus asked, putting the car in gear.
"Not yet," I said, lowering the binoculars. "Let them absorb the silence first. The real reckoning happens on Monday morning when the criminal charges drop."
