Chapter 7 - The Unwelcome Specter at Nine-Thirty
The sharp, relentless rattling of my apartment door handle accompanied Paige’s dramatic entrance. She didn’t just walk into my living room; she stormed it, her eyes blazing with an unholy mix of fury, panic, and sheer entitlement. Even though the elaborate updo from her aborted wedding was beginning to unravel, strands of lacquered hair sticking to her flushed forehead, her posture remained stiff with aristocratic outrage. Behind her, trailing like a thoroughly exhausted shadow, walked our mother, her hands wringing a designer handbag until the leather groaned.
"Are you out of your mind?" Paige shrieked, marching right up to the edge of the couch where I lay trapped under a heavy medical brace. "Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Because of your pathetic little stunt—your little dramatic exit—my life is an absolute disaster!"
A wave of nausea, half-induced by the lingering anesthesia and half by sheer disbelief, rolled through my stomach. I tried to shift my weight, but the pain in my freshly reconstructed right shoulder flared, sending a white-hot spike down my arm. I hissed through my teeth, clutching my good arm against my chest.
"Paige," I choked out, my voice raspy and thin from the hospital tube and lack of use. "Get out of my apartment. Now."
"Don't you dare use that tone with me!" Paige lunged forward, looming over my couch. For a fraction of a second, I flinched, instinctively fearing she might shove me again, just like she had shoved me into that freezing, chlorinated water. The memory of the shock, the tearing of my already compromised rotator cuff, and the sound of her mocking laughter echoed painfully in my ears. "Julian packed his bags! He walked out of the hotel suite three hours after the ceremony was supposed to start! He won't answer my calls, his mother blocked my number, and all because you decided to play the martyr!"
Mother finally found her voice, though it trembled with a mixture of anxiety and habitual blame. "Clara, honey... Paige is just upset. You know how much work she put into this wedding. Can't you just... I don't know, call Julian? Tell him it was a misunderstanding? Tell him you tripped? You've always been so clumsy, it wouldn't even be a lie."
I stared at my mother, a chilling realization washing over me that was even more agonizing than the surgery. Even now, hours after their precious golden child had publicly humiliated me, put my health at extreme risk, and destroyed a man's trust, they still expected me to lie. They still expected me to swallow the glass so Paige could smile.
"I didn't trip, Mother," I said, my voice dropping an octave, steadying despite the agony in my shoulder. "Paige pushed me. Into the deep end. Knowing my arm was torn. And Julian heard her admit it on the microphone. Every single guest heard it. I didn't ruin her wedding, Paige. Paige ruined her own wedding."
Paige’s face twisted into an ugly, venomous sneer. She leaned down so close I could smell the expensive champagne and sweet perfume clinging to her ruined designer gown. "You miserable, jealous bitch," she hissed, her voice trembling with venom. "You’ve hated me since the day I was born because you were always the boring, broken one. You couldn't stand to see me happy, so you blew up my entire life over a little shove!"
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Before I could muster the strength to reply, the heavy front door—which Paige had left swinging open—creaked further. A tall silhouette stepped into the dim entryway, holding a plastic bag from the pharmacy and a takeout container. It was Natalie, back with my post-surgery supplies. She stopped dead in her tracks, her sharp eyes taking in the scene: Paige towering threateningly over my recovery couch, Mother cowering defensively near the TV stand, and me, pale and trapped in a heavy medical harness.
Natalie didn't hesitate. She dropped the bag onto the entryway table with a sharp *thud* that made both Paige and Mother jump, and marched straight into the living room like a military commander entering a hostile zone.
