Chapter 7 - The Pressure Build
The week of the wedding was a masterclass in psychological warfare executed by Eleanor Vance.
She didn't call me directly. Instead, she used every vendor, relative, and mutual acquaintance as a weapon.
On Tuesday, the florist called me in a panic, stating that Eleanor had called and canceled my chosen white lily arrangements, replacing them with massive, expensive orchid towers that cost an additional four thousand dollars—and she had instructed the florist to send the invoice directly to my personal email.
I called the florist back and reinstated the lilies immediately, warning them that any changes not authorized by my personal signature would result in a breach-of-contract lawsuit.
On Wednesday, Brad came to my apartment at midnight, looking pale and half-crazed.
"Linda, please!" he begged, dropping to his knees in the hallway. "Mom locked my credit cards! She froze my car lease payment! She said if you don't sign the trust agreement by Friday night, she's calling the caterer and pulling the plug on the entire reception!"
"Then let her pull the plug!" I shouted, standing in the doorway of my apartment. "I paid the twenty-thousand-dollar deposit on the venue myself! My father paid for the catering! Your mother hasn't contributed a single dollar to this wedding, Brad! She has no authority to cancel anything!"
"She's doing this to force your hand!" Brad cried, burying his face in his hands. "Just sign it! Please! I can't take this stress anymore! My chest hurts! I can't sleep!"
I stood over him, feeling a terrifying coldness settle into my heart. He didn't care about my dignity. He didn't care about my father's sacrifice. He only cared about his own comfort. He wanted me to surrender my life so his mother would turn his credit cards back on.
"Get up, Brad," I said softly.
He looked up, hope flickering in his bloodshot eyes. "Are you going to sign?"
"Get up and go home to your mother," I said. "We have a rehearsal dinner tomorrow night."
"Linda—"
"Go home, Brad."
On Thursday night, at the formal rehearsal dinner in a high-end downtown restaurant, Eleanor arrived wearing a dark red dress that looked like a battle uniform. She sat at the head of the table, flanked by Arthur and a quiet, terrified Brad.
When toasts were called, Eleanor stood up, holding a glass of vintage champagne.
"I would like to offer a toast," Eleanor announced, her voice echoing clearly across the private dining room filled with our friends and family. "To my son, Bradford. A boy who has always known the value of family loyalty."
She turned her sharp, predatory gaze onto me, sitting beside my father at the far end of the table.
"And to Linda," Eleanor continued, her smile cold as steel. "A young woman who is learning that joining the Vance family requires sacrifice. We are expectant mothers of tradition here. And tomorrow, Linda will make the ultimate commitment to our family's shared financial future."
Guests clapped politely, assuming it was a sweet sentiment about marriage.
My father frowned, leaning toward me. "What is she talking about, Linda? What commitment?"
May you like
I reached under the white tablecloth and squeezed my father's rough hand, feeling the solid gold bracelet resting securely against my wrist beneath my sleeve.
"Don't worry about it, Dad," I whispered, my voice calm, steady, and sharp as a surgeon's scalpel. "She's just making speeches. Tomorrow is when the real music starts."
