Chapter 3 - The Uninvited Guest
The grand foyer of the Newport estate was eerily quiet when I pushed the heavy oak doors open. The string quartet had been replaced by ambient instrumental music drifting from hidden speakers. White rose petals still littered the marble staircase where I had taken my fall twelve hours earlier.
In the center of the reception hall, Sloan stood in front of a three-way mirror, a cloud of tulle and imported Chantilly lace billowing around her. Her hair was swept into an intricate chignon, and her face was a masterpiece of professional contouring.
Then she saw me in the mirror's reflection.
Her expression shifted instantly from bridal serenity to incandescent fury. She spun around, the heavy silk skirt swishing violently against the floor.
“Are you insane?” she shrieked, marching toward me before I had even cleared the entryway. “Look at you! You look like a refugee from a disaster zone! Get that hideous black brace out of my sight before the photographer arrives!”
I leaned my weight onto my crutches, keeping my voice entirely level.
“Good morning, Sloan. Congratulations on your big day.”
“Don't you dare patronize me!” She stopped two feet away, her chest heaving. “Mom said you were supposed to come early, apologize, and stay out of sight in the holding room until the ceremony started. Why are you standing in the middle of the ballroom with those... those sticks?”
Mom materialized from behind a velvet pillar, her silver gown rustling like dry leaves. Her face was tight with pinched irritation.
“Merritt. I explicitly told you not to bring negative energy into this room. Sloan has had zero sleep because of your little drama last night.”
“My drama?” I repeated, the quiet calmness in my tone making my mother flinch slightly. “Mom, last night I tore my reconstructed ligament, fractured my knee joint, and was wheeled out of here by a stranger while Dad paid twenty bucks to get rid of me.”
“You tripped over your own feet because you refused to watch where you were going!” Mom hissed, stepping closer to lower her voice so the caterers wouldn't hear. “And now you're making a scene again. Go upstairs. Put on a long dress that hides that monstrous brace, and sit in the back row where nobody has to look at you.”
Before I could answer, heavy footsteps echoed across the marble floor.
Thatcher walked out from the groom's suite. He was wearing a sharply tailored charcoal tuxedo, but his tie was slightly loosened, and his eyes were bloodshot. He hadn't been sleeping either.
He walked straight past Sloan and stopped in front of my crutches.
“Merritt,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “Your phone is off. I tried calling you from the hospital this morning. How's the leg?”
“Multiple tears, a fracture, and six months of non-weight-bearing rehab,” I answered directly.
May you like
Thatcher stared at me for a long, heavy second. Then he turned his head slowly toward Sloan.
The look in his eyes wasn't cold anymore. It was absolute, chilling emptiness.
