Chapter 3 - The Grand Foyer
The historic Newport estate looked breathtaking in the midday light. White hydrangeas cascaded down stone balustrades, string lights were strung across the manicured lawns, and luxury sports cars lined the gravel driveway.
When the SUV pulled up to the main entrance, the valet stared in open confusion as Greer slid the side door open and pulled out my titanium wheelchair.
“Ma’am, guest parking is down the—,” the valet began.
“We’re not guests,” Greer interrupted, her voice dropping into the icy register she usually reserved for negligent ship captains trying to lie about cargo manifests. “We’re corporate investigators. Lead the way to the bridal suite.”
The valet swallowed hard, took one look at Greer’s titanium briefcase and my unyielding expression, and silently held the heavy oak doors open.
As we rolled into the grand foyer, the string quartet—hired once again to play light classical melodies—faltered mid-measure.
Guests milling about the foyer in designer tuxedos and pastel gowns turned to stare. At the center of the marble staircase stood Sloan, wearing her multi-thousand-dollar Vera Wang wedding gown, a veil cascading behind her like a waterfall of silk. Beside her stood Thatcher, his expression tight and unreadable.
My mother and father emerged from the parlor, their faces contorted in matching expressions of horror and rage.
“Merritt!” Blythe hissed, marching across the marble, her silver gown rustling aggressively. “What in God’s name is this? Why are you in a wheelchair? And why are you dressed like you’re about to audit an oil rig?”
Judson was right behind her, his face flushed red. “Have you completely lost your mind? Making a scene like this on your sister's wedding day? Get her out of here, whoever these people are!”
I raised my hand, palm out, stopping them dead in their tracks. The silence in the foyer became absolute. Even the string quartet stopped playing entirely.
“Mom. Dad,” I said, my voice carrying clearly across the marble acoustics. “Save the performance. We need to talk about logistics.”
Sloan descended two steps, her eyes flashing with pure venom. “You absolute psycho! You ruined my rehearsal, you ruined my morning, and now you roll in here looking like a hospital patient just to steal my spotlight? Thatcher, look at her! She’s doing this on purpose!”
All eyes shifted to Thatcher.
He didn't look at Sloan. Instead, he stepped slowly down the stairs, walking past my parents until he stood directly in front of my wheelchair. He looked down at my swollen, immobilized leg, then up into my eyes.
“Is that a fracture?” Thatcher asked quietly.
“Torn ACL, severe meniscus damage, and a tibial plateau fracture,” I answered evenly. “Caused by my sister intentionally shoving me down these exact marble stairs because my brace didn't match her color scheme.”
Sloan shrieked, clutching her veil. “That is a disgusting lie! She tripped! She’s clumsy!”
“We have 4K security footage from three different angles, Sloan,” Greer chimed in smoothly, opening her tablet and resting it casually on her lap. “Including audio of you laughing while she lay bleeding.”
Thatcher’s jaw tightened. He turned his head slowly to look at Sloan. The disgust on his face was now so profound it looked physical.
“You... you pushed her?” Thatcher asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Thatcher, don't listen to her!” Sloan stammered, her face losing its carefully applied color. “She’s lying! She’s always trying to ruin everything for me!”
“She didn't just push me, Thatcher,” I added, glancing at my father. “She and my parents also needed a little extra funding for the party.”
May you like
I looked straight at Judson.
“Dad, you might want to call your credit card company. Or better yet, talk to the venue manager about why the final forty-two thousand five hundred dollars of your catering bill was charged to my corporate emergency account without my consent.”
