Chapter 5 - The Processional
The sanctuary of the Carlyle Estate was designed in the Gothic revival style: soaring vaulted ceilings, dark walnut pews, and massive stained-glass windows depicting saints with haloed heads.
Four hundred guests filled the pews.
On the groom's side sat the aristocracy of the state: supreme court justices, banking heirs, university chancellors, and old-money families whose names graced the wings of hospitals and art museums.
On the bride's side sat Eleanor and Arthur’s social circle: country club associates, corporate acquaintances Arthur desperately wanted to impress, and distant relatives who had been told for months that Sloan had secured the match of the century.
At the very front of the sanctuary, standing before the marble altar beneath a suspended cross of white orchids, stood Thatcher.
He was the picture of aristocratic composure. Tall, broad-shouldered, his dark tuxedo fitting him with absolute precision. But if anyone had looked closely at his eyes, they would have seen that he wasn't looking toward the entrance with the nervous, joyful anticipation of a groom.
His face was carved out of cold, merciless stone.
Beside him, Victoria Montgomery sat in the front pew. She wasn't smiling. She sat perfectly erect, her gloved hands resting on her purse, staring directly at the altar with an expression that could have frozen boiling water.
Across the aisle, Eleanor sat between the two towering security guards Thatcher had assigned to her. Her knuckles were white around her program. She was sweating beneath her heavy makeup, her eyes darting frantically toward the back doors, terrified of what was coming, yet powerless to stop it without causing the very public explosion she had spent her life trying to avoid.
The massive brass doors at the back of the sanctuary swung open.
Bellamy wheeled me through the threshold just as the processional began.
Instead of hiding in the vestibule, she pushed my wheelchair straight down the outer side aisle, stopping right at the edge of the front row, directly across from Victoria Montgomery.
A collective murmur rippled through the pews.
Heads turned. Whispers broke out like dry leaves catching fire.
"Is that Merritt?"
"Good heavens, what happened to her leg?"
"Why is she in a full cast?"
"Didn't Eleanor say she was just slightly under the weather?"
My mother looked over at me, her eyes bulging with silent, venomous rage. If looks could kill, I would have dropped dead on the carpet. But beside her, Davis, the head security guard, shifted his bulk slightly, resting a heavy, gloved hand on the back of her pew. Eleanor froze, forced to swallow her screams.
Then, the organist struck the first triumphant chords of Wagner’s Bridal Chorus.
The entire congregation rose to their feet.
The double doors opened wider, framed by cascading white roses.
Arthur walked through, his chest puffed out like a peacock, his chin held high. And on his arm was Sloan.
She floated down the center aisle, her cathedral veil billowing behind her, her hand clutching a bouquet of rare white peonies. She looked down at the guests, flashing dazzling, demure smiles, soaking in the collective gasps of admiration like nectar. She was the star of the production. The center of the universe. The woman who had everything.
As she passed my row, her eyes flicked to the side.
She saw me sitting there.
For a fraction of a second, her smile tightened, but she didn't break stride. She gave me a tiny, imperceptible smirk—a look of pure, untouchable triumph—before turning her gaze back toward the altar, where her handsome, wealthy fiancé stood waiting.
She reached the bottom of the altar steps.
Arthur placed Sloan's hand into Thatcher’s.
"Who gives this woman to be married to this man?" the minister asked, his deep, resonant voice echoing through the vaulted space.
"Her mother and I do," Arthur announced proudly, his voice booming with satisfaction. He kissed Sloan’s cheek, shot Thatcher a conspiratorial, welcoming wink, and stepped down to take his seat beside Eleanor.
Sloan turned to face Thatcher.
Her cheeks were dusted with delicate pink blush. Her eyes were wide, shining with what looked like pure adoration. She raised her hands to place them into Thatcher's palms.
Thatcher didn't take them.
He kept his hands clasped firmly behind his back.
Sloan’s hands hung in the empty air between them.
A tiny flicker of confusion crossed her face. "Thatcher?" she whispered, her voice barely carrying past the first row. "Take my bouquet, silly."
The minister cleared his throat, sensing the sudden awkwardness. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God and these witnesses—"
"Stop," Thatcher said.
The word wasn't loud.
He didn't yell.
He didn't shout.
He simply spoke with the absolute, unyielding authority of a man who owned the ground he stood upon.
The minister halted mid-sentence, his bible hovering in the air.
May you like
The organist, realizing something had gone terribly wrong, abruptly cut the music. The silence that fell over the four hundred guests was so instantaneous, so complete, that you could hear the faint hiss of the candles burning on the altar.
---
