Chapter 2 - The Arrival in White and Steel
At 9:15 AM, the door to my hospital room swung open. Greer stood in the frame wearing a sharply tailored charcoal pantsuit, holding a folding titanium wheelchair that looked less like medical equipment and more like a high-end racing bicycle. Behind her walked a young paralegal named Toby from our corporate legal department, carrying a thick leather briefcase and a portable document scanner.
“Well,” Greer said, surveying the sterile room with a critical eye. “You look like you’ve been through a shipping container collision. Which, technically, you have.”
“My knee is the size of a watermelon,” I replied, attempting a grim smile.
“Good. That means you’ll be stationary and won't try to run off and fix your sister's napkin folding,” Greer said briskly, wheeling the chair forward. “Toby has the preliminary fraud affidavits ready for your signature. Once you sign, the bank initiates a clawback against the Newport estate, and the corporate security team formally requests the CCTV footage from the grand foyer.”
“What about the wedding?” Toby asked, looking slightly bewildered. “Are we skipping it?”
“Skipping it?” I reached for my blouse, refusing to let them see me shake. “Oh, no. We’re going. We’re just not going as guests.”
Twenty minutes later, Greer wheeled me out of the hospital entrance and into the back of a rented black SUV. My right leg was propped straight out on an elevated foam wedge, wrapped in a fresh, bulky immobilizer. My hair was tied back in a sleek, severe knot. I wore a dark navy silk jumpsuit that concealed the brace while maintaining an air of terrifying corporate authority.
As we drove down the coastal highway toward the historic Newport estate, my phone buzzed continuously.
A group chat called Sloan & Thatcher’s Forever was blowing up.
Sloan: Where are you? Hair is done. Makeup is done. You have twenty minutes before photos or you are officially dead to me.
Blythe (Mom): Merritt, this is disgraceful. Your cousin Bellamy had to step in as an honorary bridesmaid, but everyone is asking why you’re throwing this childish tantrum over a little bump.
Judson (Dad): Get here now. I had to smooth things over with Thatcher’s family because your absence looks like a family feud. Fix this immediately.
I didn't text back. I simply forwarded the entire chat thread to Greer, who glanced at her tablet and let out a dry, humorless chuckle.
May you like
“Ah, parental emotional terrorism,” Greer observed, tapping the screen. “Classic. They really believe that because they birthed you, your bank account and your dignity belong to them.”
“Not anymore,” I said, staring out the window at the gray Atlantic crashing against the rocky cliffs. “Today, they’re going to learn what happens when you steal from a marine claims adjuster.”
