Chapter 9 - The Digital Ash
Sutton had finally managed to stumble down the grand staircase, her feather-trimmed robe trailing behind her like the soiled plumage of an injured peacock. She burst through the terrace doors just as the three hundred guests began to stand and walk toward the exit.
She expected to see Alden waiting at the altar. She expected to see her mother organizing the bridal party.
Instead, she walked into a wall of pure, unadulterated contempt.
Her high-society friends—women who had fawned over her Instagram stories for years, who had begged for invitations to this weekend—stepped aside as she approached, their faces twisted into disgust.
“Sutton, you’re sick,” one of her former college roommates whispered, shaking her head as she brushed past. “You need serious psychological help.”
“What?” Sutton gasped, looking wildly from face to face. “What are you talking about? Where is everyone going? The ceremony starts in an hour!”
Then, she looked up at the fifty-foot LED jumbotron.
The screen was still looping the video. Her own voice was echoing across the courtyard: *“The cripple’s going down like a sack of bricks.”*
Sutton froze. Her breath caught in her throat, a high, strangled squeak escaping her chest.
She whipped out her phone with trembling fingers.
Her notifications weren't just buzzing; the device was vibrating continuously, heating up in her palm from the sheer volume of incoming data.
Her follower count was in freefall. A red banner across her main profile read: **Account Under Review for Violent Content and Community Guideline Violations.**
Every major brand partnership she had spent five years cultivating was gone. *Lumière Bridal* had posted an official statement: *“We are appalled by the horrific actions of Sutton Vance. Our contract has been terminated immediately, and we are pursuing legal options to recover all promotional advances.”*
*Aura Skincare* had disabled comments entirely after posting: *“Zero tolerance for violence or abuse. We stand with Fallon Vance.”*
“No...” Sutton whimpered, dropping her phone onto the manicured grass. The screen cracked across the center. “No, no, no! This isn't fair! You edited it! You manipulated the footage!”
Vesper stepped forward, her heels clicking crisply against the stone pavers. She pulled a legal document from her portfolio and held it out.
“Nobody edited anything, Sutton,” Vesper said, her voice dripping with venomous satisfaction. “The raw, uncompressed files were delivered directly from the hardware mixer to the District Attorney’s office. And speaking of the law...”
Vesper turned slightly as two uniformed deputies from the sheriff’s department stepped through the terrace archway.
“Ms. Sutton Vance?” the lead deputy asked, unhooking a pair of handcuffs from his utility belt.
Sutton’s eyes bulged with pure panic. She backed up two steps, her heel catching on the trailing hem of her robe. “What? No! I’m the bride! Today is my wedding day!”
“Ms. Vance, you are under arrest for Aggravated Battery with Serious Bodily Injury,” the deputy announced, stepping forward and taking her by the wrist. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
“Mom!” Sutton shrieked, thrashing against the deputy’s grip as the cold steel locked around her wrists. “Mom, do something! Call Dad! Tell him to fix this!”
Althia didn't move. She sat on the base of the stone pillar, staring blankly at the ground, her plum-colored gown rumpled, her face a mask of ruined mascara and hollow shock. Stellin was already in central booking; their credit cards were frozen; the resort management had just informed her that the remaining seventy-five thousand dollars in lodging and security fees would be referred to a collection agency within the hour.
There was no money. There was no brand deal. There was no wedding.
As the deputies led Sutton away, her hysterical screams echoing through the luxury resort, she caught sight of me sitting in my wheelchair by the edge of the courtyard.
“Fallon!” she wailed, her face contorted into an ugly, desperate mask of tears and snot. “Tell them! Tell them it was a prank! We’re sisters, Fallon! Sisters forgive each other!”
I looked at her—the girl who had taken everything, who had laughed while my bone tore through my flesh, who had never once in thirty-four years considered me a human being.
“I don't have a sister,” I said quietly.
May you like
Sutton was dragged through the double doors, her cries fading into the cavernous marble corridors until the courtyard was finally, beautifully silent.
***
