Chapter 6 - The Unraveling
“Thatcher...” Sloan whimpered, her voice cracking as she reached out to grab his lapel. “Thatcher, please. Don't look at me like that. It was just a joke! Everyone laughed when I did it on TikTok last week! I didn't think she'd actually break anything—she's so dramatic—”
Thatcher stepped backward, cleanly evading her touch as if her very presence burned him.
“You recorded it?” Thatcher asked, his voice deathly quiet.
Sloan froze, her mouth slightly open.
“You recorded yourself pushing your sister down the stairs as a social media stunt?”
“No—I mean—Bellamy took a clip—!” Sloan stammered, her eyes darting frantically toward our cousin Bellamy, who was standing near the arched doorway with her phone still clutched in her hand like a weapon.
Thatcher turned his gaze from Sloan to Bellamy, then back to the open ring box in his hand.
Without a word, he lifted the groom's band out of the velvet slot, dropped it into his trouser pocket, and closed the box with a sharp click that echoed through the empty ballroom.
“The wedding is off,” Thatcher said.
The words didn't carry any anger. They were simply a technical conclusion, delivered with the absolute finality of an engineer shutting down a failed turbine.
Sloan screamed.
It wasn't a refined, cinematic gasp. It was a raw, primal shriek of unadulterated shock. She threw her hands up to her face, her carefully styled chignon destabilizing as she clutched at her hair.
“You can't do this!” she screamed, lunging forward. “We have three hundred guests arriving in thirty minutes! The catering is paid for! The flowers are delivered! My dress cost twenty thousand dollars! You can't leave me standing here!”
“Watch me,” Thatcher said.
He turned his back on her, walked over to the mahogany table where his overnight bag sat, picked it up by the strap, and walked straight toward the grand double doors without looking back once.
“Thatcher! THATCHER!” Sloan shrieked, collapsing onto the marble floor in a heap of white lace and tulle, sobbing hysterically as her expensive makeup smeared across her fingers.
Mom rushed to her side, dropping to her knees on the cold stone, wailing in sympathetic agony.
“My baby! Look what you've done to her!” Mom screamed across the room at me, her face twisted with a terrifying mask of hatred. “Are you happy now? You destroyed your sister's life out of pure, black-hearted jealousy!”
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Dad stood frozen in the center of the room, looking frantically between his weeping wife, his hysterical daughter, and the manila folder still resting on the glass table.
I didn't yell. I didn't argue. I simply turned my crutches around, adjusted my grip, and began walking toward the exit.
