Chapter 5 - The Velvet Ring Box
The silence inside the bridal suite was so profound you could hear the distant roar of the ocean crashing against the rocky Newport cliffs.
Sloan backed away from my wheelchair, her manicured fingers digging into the collar of her silk robe until the fabric tore at the shoulder seam. “No. No, you’re lying. Thatcher loves me. He bought the Tiffany ring. He paid for the honeymoon in Amalfi. He wouldn't care about a stupid accident!”
“It wasn’t an accident, Sloan,” a quiet, gravelly voice said from the doorway.
We all turned.
Thatcher was standing in the open entrance. He wore a crisp, tailored black tuxedo, but his bow tie hung untied around his neck, and his starched collar was unbuttoned. In his right hand, he held the same small, navy velvet ring box he had been clutching the night before.
Behind him stood Julian, tall and broad-shouldered, looking like an executioner in formal wear.
Blythe rushed forward instantly, her hands fluttering in frantic, desperate appeasement. “Thatcher, darling! Don’t listen to this nonsense! Merritt is having an emotional breakdown because of her painkillers! She’s always been dramatic—she’s trying to sabotage her sister’s special day out of pure spite!”
Thatcher didn't look at Blythe. He didn't even look at Sloan.
He walked past them both, his eyes fixed entirely on my leg. He stopped in front of my wheelchair, went down on one knee on the hardwood floor, and gently touched the blue wool throw covering my surgical cast.
“How bad is it, Merritt?” he asked softly.
“ACL graft is completely gone,” I told him, my voice cracking slightly despite my best efforts. “Tibial plateau fracture. Six months off the field. I lost my commercial port contract this morning.”
Thatcher closed his eyes. A muscle in his jaw jumped, twitching with a suppressed, volcanic fury that was far more terrifying than any shouting match.
When he opened his eyes, he stood up slowly, turning to face the woman he was supposed to marry in three hours.
Sloan forced a trembling, gorgeous smile onto her face. It was the smile she had used to get out of speeding tickets, bad grades, and destroyed prom dresses since she was twelve. She took a dainty step toward him, her eyelashes fluttering with manufactured tears.
“Thatcher... baby,” she purred, reaching for his lapels. “You know how stressed I’ve been. The wedding planner was completely incompetent. The florists messed up the arches. I was just trying to fix the entrance! I didn't mean for her to fall that hard! It was just a little shove—she lost her balance because of that ridiculous brace!”
Thatcher took half a step backward, letting her hands fall into empty air.
“A little shove?” Thatcher’s voice was barely a whisper, but it filled the room like lead shot. “You watched her roll down six stone steps, Sloan. You heard her bone snap. And then you stood on the banister and told a hundred people it was a joke.”
“I was embarrassed!” she wailed, her eyes darting toward the mirror. “People were looking at me!”
“People were looking at a monster,” Thatcher said.
Blythe gasped, her face flushing crimson with offended outrage. “Thatcher! How dare you speak to my daughter that way! Her father is a senior partner at—"
“Her father is an embezzler and a thief, Mrs. Miller,” Julian interrupted from the doorway, stepping into the room with an iPad in his hand. “My father’s bank handles your Greenwich mortgage. Your husband defaulted on his bridge loan three weeks ago. He’s been writing bad checks across Rhode Island for six months to maintain the illusion of old money.”
Julian looked at Thatcher and nodded. “The corporate card fraud is real, Thatch. Christian Sterling just showed me the merchant receipts. Judson used Merritt’s company account to clear the estate’s final balance thirty minutes after she was pushed down the stairs.”
Sloan looked at Thatcher, her chest heaving, the terror finally breaking through her narcissistic shell.
“Thatcher, please,” she begged, dropping to her knees right in front of him, her silk robe dragging across the floorboards. “Don’t do this to me. Not today. Think about our guests! The society editors from Vogue are already on the terrace! If you leave, I’ll be completely ruined!”
Thatcher looked down at her. There was no rage in his expression. No hurt. No sorrow.
There was only a vast, cold expanse of absolute disgust.
He extended his right arm, opened his fingers, and let the navy velvet ring box drop.
May you like
It hit the hardwood floor between Sloan’s bare knees with a hollow, echoing thump. The spring latch popped open, revealing the massive three-carat emerald-cut diamond sitting cold and lifeless against the satin padding.
“The wedding is off,” Thatcher said.
