Chapter 2 - THE COST OF KEEPING THE PEACE
(1,500 words)
The emergency room fluorescent lights flickered above my bed with a low, mechanical hum. The air smelled of antiseptic, cold saline, and old floor wax.
Greer walked into the room at 6:45 a.m., carrying two large thermal travel mugs from a local coffee shop and a thick manila folder tucked firmly under her arm.
She looked as though she had stepped off a corporate jet in Chicago rather than driving two hours down the New England coastline. Her gray tweed trousers were pressed to a sharp crease, her dark hair pulled back into a severe, elegant knot. She pulled the plastic curtain shut behind her, set one mug on my bedside tray table, and pulled up a stainless-steel stool.
"You look terrible," Greer said smoothly, unclipping a silver pen from her lapel. "And that's coming from someone who inspected a sunken freighter off the coast of Halifax in four-foot seas."
"Good morning to you too, Greer," I murmured, leaning my head back against the thin hospital pillow. "Did you see the file I emailed you?"
"I saw the file, I saw the video, and I called Richard Vance—our lead corporate litigator—at five fifteen this morning," Greer replied, opening her manila folder. "Richard was so intrigued by the sheer, unadulterated hubris of your family that he took the case before his second cup of espresso. Let's start with the $42,500 charge on your corporate line."
I picked up my phone, sliding the screen toward her to show the pending merchant authorization. "They took my purse while I was waiting for the taxi. My father told the valet he was securing my belongings. He must have pulled the corporate black card out of my wallet right there in the parking circle, walked back inside, and handed it directly to the estate’s general manager."
Greer’s sharp gray eyes narrowed into razor-thin slits. "Using a corporate line issued by a marine insurance conglomerate to settle a private residential wedding debt constitutes grand larceny, credit card fraud, and unauthorized corporate embezzlement. Richard already faxed a formal litigation hold to the estate’s accounting office. The venue manager panicked when he realized he’d processed a stolen corporate card and immediately froze the transaction. The $42,500 is reversed."
I let out a long, ragged breath, feeling a knot in my chest loosen slightly. "Thank God."
"Oh, don't thank God yet, Merritt," Greer said, a cold, predatory smile touching her lips. "Thank federal banking regulations. But that's just the appetizer. Let's talk about the main course: the assault."
She pulled out a high-resolution printout of the video frames. The image was crystal clear. It caught Sloan’s face from the upper balcony—her eyes focused directly on my lower legs, her right foot swinging out with mechanical precision, her shoulder dipping as she shoved my upper spine.
"This isn't an accident," Greer noted, her finger tapping the photo. "In legal terms, this is intentional infliction of bodily harm resulting in catastrophic financial and physical damages. You lost a $65,000 primary commission on the Providence Port contract. Your medical bills for this second reconstruction will exceed $80,000. And your loss of earning capacity over the next six months adds another six figures."
"My parents think I’m going to show up at nine o'clock to apologize," I said, looking down at my leg, which was now wrapped in a rigid fiberglass post-operative cast. "Mom sent another text twenty minutes ago. She said if I don't walk down the aisle in the blush dress, Dad is cutting me out of his will."
Greer let out a sharp, barking laugh that echoed off the tile walls. "Your father’s net worth is tied up in a mortgaged suburban home and two failing regional dry-cleaning franchises. He has nothing to cut you out of except his credit card debt. Now, tell me about the fiancé."
"Thatcher?" I paused, remembering his face as I lay on the marble floor. "He was holding the ring box. He didn't look angry at me. He looked... sick."
"Because Thatcher isn't an idiot," Greer said, pulling her phone from her pocket. "I did a quick background check on his family while driving down. His father, Arthur Montgomery, is the senior managing partner at Montgomery & Croft—the largest commercial logistics firm in New England. Thatcher works as their chief operations analyst. He understands liability, Merritt. He understands risk assessment. And he just realized he was about to sign a marriage license with a sociopath."
Before I could answer, my phone began to vibrate wildly against the tray table.
The caller ID displayed JUDSON BRADDOCK — CELL.
I looked at Greer. She gave me a slow, approving nod, pulling a digital voice recorder from her jacket pocket and placing it directly beside the phone.
I pressed speaker.
"Merritt!" My father’s voice boomed through the speaker, tight, aggressive, and echoing with the acoustic acoustics of a high-end hotel lobby. "Where the hell are you? Your mother has been waiting in the bridal suite for forty minutes! Sloan’s makeup artist needs to finish the bridal party portraits before eleven!"
I kept my voice entirely level, devoid of emotion. "I’m in the orthopedic trauma unit at Rhode Island Hospital, Dad."
A heavy, irritated sigh whistled through the receiver. "Oh, stop the theatrical routine, Merritt! We called the venue doctor last night. He said it was a soft-tissue strain!"
"The venue doctor was a general practitioner hired to treat hangovers and heatstroke," I replied coldly. "My reconstructed ACL graft is completely torn. The meniscus is shredded, and the top of my tibia is fractured. I'm scheduled for secondary surgery on Monday morning."
There was a brief, uncomfortable silence on the line. I heard the muffled sound of my mother speaking in the background, her tone hushed and furious.
"Well," my father gritted out, adjusting his approach without missing a beat. "That’s unfortunate. Truly. But you could have handled this quietly. Instead, you've caused a massive scene with the catering office! The venue manager just called my room screaming about a legal freeze on the final invoice! Did you cancel the catering card?!"
"I didn't cancel a personal card, Dad," I said. "You stole my corporate emergency card out of my purse and attempted to launder a $42,500 personal wedding expense through my employer."
"I took your purse to keep it safe while you were being dramatic!" he shouted, his aristocratic composure cracking entirely. "We paid for your college housing ten years ago, Merritt! You owe this family! Your sister’s wedding is today! How dare you freeze the catering account five hours before two hundred guests arrive?!"
"If the catering bill isn't paid by ten a.m.," my mother’s voice suddenly shrieked from the background, closer to the receiver now, "they won't open the main dining hall! Merritt, you listen to me! You call your bank right now and authorize that charge, or you are no longer a daughter in this family!"
Greer leaned down toward the microphone, her voice dropping into a smooth, icy register that made my father’s shouting freeze instantly.
"Mr. and Mrs. Braddock," Greer said into the phone. "My name is Greer Sterling. I am the Senior Vice President of Claims Operations for North Atlantic Maritime Insurance, and I am sitting in this hospital room as Miss Braddock's corporate representative."
Silence. Dead, suffocating silence.
"If you or your wife contact Merritt again today," Greer continued, her words deliberate and lethal, "I will immediately file a formal criminal affidavit for grand larceny and corporate credit card fraud with the Newport Police Department. Furthermore, process servers are currently en route to the estate to deliver a civil subpoena for intentional assault and battery naming your daughter, Sloan Braddock."
"Who... who is this?!" Judson stammered, his booming confidence entirely evaporating. "This is a private family matter!"
"It ceased being a private family matter when you committed a felony using my company's financial credentials," Greer replied. "Have a wonderful wedding, Mr. Braddock."
Greer reached out and tapped the red button, ending the call.
She sat back on her stainless-steel stool, picked up her coffee mug, and took a slow, deliberate sip.
"Now," Greer smiled, her gray eyes gleaming with absolute satisfaction. "Let's go get you dressed. We have a wedding to attend."
May you like
I looked at her, stunned. "We're going to the wedding?"
"Of course we're going," Greer said, standing up and pulling a sleek, dark-gray folding wheelchair from behind the room's privacy curtain. "You didn't think we were going to let them eat that expensive cake in peace, did you?"
