“Get up, Merritt. It was a joke. God, you really will do anything for attention.”

(1,500 words)

The estate's grand lawn stretched down toward the sparkling blue waters of Narragansett Bay. White wooden chairs were arranged in perfect, symmetrical arcs across the immaculate green turf, framed by towering arrangements of white hydrangeas and pale pink roses.

A string quartet—the same one that had played while I lay bleeding on the marble floor eighteen hours earlier—was playing a soft, romantic arrangement of a classical piece.

Over a hundred and fifty guests sat in the bright afternoon sunlight, wearing pastel silk dresses, tailored linen suits, and expensive sunglasses.

At 1:45 p.m., fifteen minutes before the ceremony was scheduled to begin, a black luxury van pulled onto the gravel driveway behind the main lawn.

Greer stepped out first, wearing an immaculate navy suit, sunglasses, and carrying a black leather portfolio. She walked around to the rear lift, helping lower my mechanical wheelchair down to the gravel path.

I was wearing a tailored charcoal-gray trousers suit—loose enough to accommodate the massive fiberglass cast extending from my upper thigh down to my ankle. My dark hair was pulled back into a sleek knot, my expression utterly calm.

Beside us walked Richard Vance—a tall, silver-haired attorney in his late fifties, carrying a stack of blue-stamped legal documents.

"Remember, Merritt," Richard said softly as he adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. "You are a guest. You hold a valid invitation. You have committed no crime. If anyone attempts to physically bar your entry, they commit secondary obstruction."

"My parents are going to lose their minds," I murmured as Greer pushed my chair smoothly across the crushed stone path toward the lawn.

"Let them," Greer replied smoothly. "Mind-losing is entirely free of charge."

We reached the edge of the seating area just as my mother stepped out from the estate's private terrace.

Blythe looked radiant in her silver evening gown, though a tight, desperate line was etched around her mouth. She was speaking frantically to the estate’s head coordinator, gesturing toward the main doors.

When Blythe turned her head and saw me sitting in a wheelchair on the central aisle—flanked by a high-powered corporate executive and a senior litigator—her face turned a terrifying shade of chalk-white.

She dropped her velvet evening clutch directly onto the grass.

"Merritt?!" Blythe gasped, rushing across the lawn, her high heels sinking into the turf. "What are you doing here?! What is... what is this?!"

She stared at the wheelchair, then at Greer, then at the massive fiberglass cast leg resting on the elevated footrest.

"I came to celebrate my sister's special day, Mom," I said, my voice carrying clearly across the quieted lawn. Several guests in the back rows turned around to look.

"You can't be here!" Blythe hissed, dropping to her knees beside my chair, her voice a harsh, desperate whisper. "Look at you! You're in a wheelchair! You're wearing gray pants! You're going to ruin the processional photographs!"

"The photographs are the least of your concerns today, Mrs. Braddock," Richard Vance interjected, stepping forward and handing her a thick white envelope. "This is a formal notice of preservation of evidence. All video footage, phone records, and communication devices belonging to your family are now subject to federal court subpoena."

Blythe stared at the white envelope as if it were dripping with poison. "Who are you people?!"

"We are Merritt's real support system," Greer said coldly. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we'd like to take our seats. The front row seems remarkably open."

Before Blythe could scream, the heavy double doors of the estate’s grand terrace swung open.

The wedding coordinator stepped out, her face pale, holding a wireless microphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the coordinator announced, her voice shaking slightly over the outdoor loudspeakers. "Please take your seats for the bridal processional."

My father, Judson, walked out onto the lawn first. He looked grey, his tuxedo jacket slightly misaligned, his eyes darting frantically toward the back row where Greer, Richard, and I sat. He looked like a man standing on a dock watching a tidal wave approach.

Then came the groomsmen.

Thatcher walked out at the head of the line, wearing a sharp black tuxedo.

His face was completely unreadable. He didn't look like a groom on his wedding day; he looked like a naval captain inspecting damage after an explosion. His eyes scanned the crowd until they landed directly on me in the wheelchair.

He paused for a fraction of a second. His chest rose and fell in a long, heavy breath.

Then came Sloan.

She emerged onto the stone terrace framed by six bridesmaids in blush silk. Her gown was a custom lace masterpiece with a ten-foot cathedral train, her veil shimmering in the coastal sunlight. She held a bouquet of white peonies, her head held high, a brilliant, triumphant smile plastered across her face.

She looked perfect. She looked angelic.

She looked like a woman who had never shoved her sister down a marble staircase in her entire life.

The string quartet struck up the bridal march.

The guests stood up, turning toward the center aisle to admire the bride.

Sloan began her slow, graceful procession down the white carpet. She beamed at the guests, nodding smoothly, accepting their whispered compliments.

As she reached the middle of the lawn—less than twenty feet from where I sat—her eyes swept over the back row.

She froze.

Her footing faltered slightly on the grass. The brilliant, triumphant smile on her face withered into a look of pure, unadulterated shock.

She saw the wheelchair.

She saw the fiberglass cast.

She saw Greer holding a digital camera pointed directly at her face.

Sloan stopped walking mid-stride.

The string quartet, confused by the sudden pause in the bridal procession, stumbled over their notes and went quiet.

"Merritt?" Sloan whispered, her voice carrying through the silent air. "What... what are you doing in that thing?"

My father rushed forward from the altar, grabbing Sloan’s arm. "Keep walking, Sloan! Ignore her! Just keep walking!"

"No!" Sloan shrieked, her delicate, angelic mask cracking completely. She pointed her lace-gloved finger directly at my face, her voice rising into a sharp, hysterical scream that echoed across the quiet ocean bay. "Why is she here?! I told Mom to keep her in the hospital! She’s doing this on purpose! She’s trying to steal my attention again!"

The hundred and fifty guests gasped in unison.

A woman in the third row pulled out her phone and began recording.

Thatcher, standing at the altar beside the officiant, slowly turned his head.

He looked at Sloan—screaming, red-faced, and pointing at her injured sister in a wheelchair.

Then he looked down at his own mother, who was sitting in the front row with her mouth open in utter horror.

Thatcher didn't say a word.