Chapter 4 - Vows and Broken Glass
The rest of the ceremony passed like a fever dream.
Father Thomas stumbled through the opening prayers, his voice wavering as he tried to redirect the room’s fractured attention back to God. But nobody was looking at the crucifix, and nobody was truly listening to the scripture readings. Every eye in the church bounced between the radiant bride, the grim matriarch of the Callahan estate, and me—the scarred girl sitting in a wheelchair right in the line of sight of every camera.
Emily stood at the altar, but her shoulders were rigid. When she recited her vows, her voice sounded tight, brittle, like porcelain stretched to its breaking point. She promised to love, honor, and cherish Julian, but her eyes kept darting toward my row.
Julian, to his credit, looked deeply troubled. During the exchange of rings, his gaze drifted past Emily to me. He took in my gloved hands, the thick graft line visible above my high collar, and the stony, triumphant posture of his mother. Julian wasn't stupid; he was beginning to realize that the family he was marrying into had intentionally locked me away in a broom closet just to keep their photos pristine.
When Father Thomas finally pronounced them husband and wife, the applause was polite rather than thunderous. The usual celebratory roar of a Lowcountry wedding was stifled by the suffocating weight of unresolved drama.
As the recessional began, Emily grabbed Julian’s arm with enough force to wrinkle his sleeve. She practically dragged him down the aisle, her veil flying behind her, desperate to escape the sanctuary. She didn't look back once.
Twenty minutes later, the guests had departed for the reception at the Callahan ancestral home on the Battery—a sprawling, three-story antebellum mansion overlooking the harbor. I remained in the church bridal parlor, waiting for my pre-arranged medical transport van. My parents had refused to ride in the limousine with me, claiming there wasn't enough room for my chair and Emily’s luggage.
I was sitting by the vanity mirror, trying to breathe through the throbbing ache in my lower back, when the heavy oak door flew open.
It slammed against the wall with a violence that made the crystal sconces rattle.
Emily stood in the doorway, alone. She had ripped off her veil; it dangled from her fist like a dead bird. Her face was flushed, her mascara smudged from furious tears.
"Are you happy now?" she screamed, storming into the room and kicking the door shut behind her with the heel of her satin shoe. "Are you finally satisfied, Claire?!"
I turned my chair slowly. "Emily, please. Keep your voice down. The church staff—"
"I don't give a damn about the church staff!" she shrieked, advancing on me until she was towering over my chair. "You humiliated me! In front of four hundred people! In front of Julian’s partners, his family, the country club board—everyone!"
"I didn't ask Margaret to move me," I said, my voice steady despite the adrenaline spiking my veins. "I was sitting where Mom told me to sit. In the dark."
"Where you belonged!" Emily snarled, the mask slipping off completely, revealing the ugly, rotten core beneath her polished exterior. "Look at you! You look like a horror movie! Did you really think people wanted to see that while I was walking down the aisle? This was *my* day! The one day in my entire life where everything was supposed to be perfect, and you dragged your melted face into my spotlight!"
The words hit me with the blunt force of a hammer. I had known she was shallow. I had known she was embarrassed by me. But hearing it laid out so bare, with so much naked venom, took the air clean out of my lungs.
"I pulled you out of the fire, Emily," I whispered, the words trembling with twelve years of swallowed grief. "I was seventeen. I burned so you wouldn't."
Emily laughed, a shrill, hysterical sound. "And I have to hear about it every single day of my life! *'Be grateful to Claire. Claire sacrificed herself. Claire is the hero.'* Do you know how sickening that is? I never asked you to go back into that house! You did that to play the martyr! And now I’m supposed to spend the rest of my life apologizing because you ended up broken and I ended up pretty?!"
"That is quite enough," a voice sliced through the room.
We both turned.
Margaret Callahan was standing near the dressing room's connecting door. She had slipped in quietly, her silver handbag clasped in both hands. Her face was entirely devoid of expression, but her eyes were cold enough to freeze water.
Emily froze, the color draining instantly from her cheeks. "Margaret... I... you don't understand. Claire was provoking me—"
"I heard every word that came out of your mouth, Emily," Margaret said, her voice terrifyingly quiet. "And I assure you, I understand everything perfectly."
"Margaret, please," Emily whimpered, immediately trying to rebuild her facade of sweet innocence. "It’s just stress. The wedding pressure... I didn't mean it—"
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"Save your breath for the reception, my dear," Margaret interrupted, her tone flat and final. "You are going to need it."
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