Chapter 4 - The Imperial Suite
At eight o’clock in the morning, the bridal suite on the top floor of the St. Jude Cliffside Resort was a vortex of expensive chaos.
Six hair stylists and makeup artists moved like frantic worker bees around Sutton, who was perched on an elevated white velvet throne in the center of the living area. She wore a monogrammed silk robe trimmed with ostrich feathers, holding a crystal flute of mimosa in one hand while a stylist curled long, golden extensions into her hair.
“The contour on my cheekbones needs to be sharper,” Sutton ordered, tapping her glass with an acrylic nail. “The drone cameras are shooting in 4K. If I look even slightly washed out against the white marble, you are redoing the entire base.”
The heavy mahogany double doors of the suite slammed open.
Althia marched into the room, wearing a plum-colored mother-of-the-bride gown that cost more than my first three cars combined. Her face was tight, her lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line.
“Has anyone heard from Alden?” Althia demanded, waving her hand to dismiss the assistant who tried to offer her a glass of champagne. “His mother isn't answering her room phone. His groomsmen are claiming they haven't seen him since six in the morning.”
Sutton rolled her eyes, admiring her reflection in the gilded handheld mirror. “Mom, relax. Alden is just having pre-wedding jitters. You know how he gets when things are too grand. He’s probably out on the beach doing some ridiculous breathing exercise with Thomas. He’ll be in his tuxedo by noon.”
“And what about your sister?” Althia snapped, pacing the Persian rug. “I sent her three messages. The hospital said she was discharged two hours ago, but she hasn't arrived at the suite. If she thinks she’s going to skip the official bridal party photos, she has another thing coming. Stellin!”
My father emerged from the suite’s private dining room, chewing on a croissant. He was wearing his tuxedo trousers and a white dress shirt, his suspenders dangling loosely at his sides. He looked slightly disheveled, dark circles bruised beneath his eyes.
“What’s the panic, Althia?” Stellin asked, wiping his fingers on a linen napkin. “The wedding isn't until two.”
“Did you talk to Fallon?”
“Her phone went straight to voicemail,” Stellin said with a dismissive wave. “She’s probably just pouting at her apartment. You know how she is. Any time the spotlight isn't on her, she plays the martyr.”
“She’d better not be pouting,” Sutton chimed in, checking her phone’s notifications. “The TikTok clip Briany posted this morning already has three hundred thousand views. People are going crazy in the comments. Look at this one: *‘OMG, bridesmaid down! The bride’s reaction is everything!’* My engagement is up four hundred percent. If Fallon comes in with that brace, we can do a follow-up video where she ‘bravely’ walks down the aisle. It’ll trend for a week.”
“Did the resort confirm the ballroom balance?” Althia asked, turning to Stellin. “The banquet manager was threatening to lock the kitchen doors last night.”
Stellin smiled, puffing out his chest with the unearned pride of a con artist who had successfully slipped a counterfeit bill across the counter. “Handled. I took care of it personally.”
“Where did you get fifty thousand dollars, Stellin?” Althia asked, lowering her voice slightly. “The second mortgage didn't clear.”
“Let’s just say Fallon finally contributed to her sister’s future,” Stellin whispered, winking at his wife. “I used her corporate card to guarantee the balance. Aviation Risk Group has billions in liquid assets. They won't even notice fifty grand until their quarterly audit in July. By then, Fallon will have figured out a way to write it off as an administrative expense. She owes us that much for raising her.”
Althia smiled, a cold, predatory expression that mirrored her youngest daughter’s face. “Good. That’s what family is for. She should be grateful we gave her the opportunity to help.”
Suddenly, the suite’s hallway fell dead silent.
The low hum of laughter and hair dryers inside the room tapered off as the sound of heavy, measured footsteps echoed outside.
Two men in dark suits stepped through the open double doors. They were not groomsmen. They wore tactical windbreakers over collared shirts, with gold shields pinned to their belts and Glock 19 sidearms holstered at their hips.
Behind them stood Maya, the assistant event manager, clutching a master keycard and a black administrative tablet.
And behind Maya rolled the wheelchair.
I sat upright in the high-backed transport chair, pushed by Vesper Vance-Cross. My left leg was completely encased in a rigid, hip-to-toe white fiberglass cast, resting on an elevated aluminum leg rest. I wore no makeup, no silk robe, and no apologetic expression. I was dressed in a tailored black suit jacket over a crisp white button-down, looking every bit the high-level corporate risk assessor that I was.
Beside me walked Detective Marcus Briggs, his face impassive, holding a thick manila folder under his arm.
The mimosa glass slipped from Sutton’s hand, shattering against the white marble floor, splashing orange juice and champagne across the hem of her feather-trimmed silk robe.
“Fallon?” Althia gasped, her face draining of color. “What... what is the meaning of this? Who are these people?”
May you like
“Hello, Mother,” I said, my voice cutting through the silent room like a diamond through glass. “You told me to be in the bridal suite by eight o’clock. I brought a few guests.”
***
