The harsh fluorescent tubes overhead hummed with an indifferent, rhythmic buzz that vibrated

The service elevator was designed for heavy banquet carts and industrial linen hampers, clanking loudly as it ascended to the third-floor executive suites. Greer pushed the carbon-fiber chair with steady, deliberate movements, her rubber-soled boots making no sound against the back-hall linoleum.

As we neared the end of the east corridor, the muffled sound of laughter, popping corks, and Taylor Swift drifting from a portable speaker grew louder. The door to Suite 304—the primary bridal suite—stood propped open with an antique brass doorstop.

Inside, the room was an explosion of tulle, empty champagne flutes, dry-cleaning plastic, and expensive cosmetics.

Four bridesmaids in matching blush-pink robes were clustered around a vanity mirror, taking group selfies while a stylist in black denim sprayed hairspray into an elaborate blonde updo. On an ornate velvet chaise lounge in the center of the room sat Sloan.

She wore a custom lace dressing robe with Mrs. Sterling embroidered across the back in seed pearls. In her left hand, she held a crystal coupe of champagne; in her right, she held a diamond tennis bracelet, holding it up to the chandelier light to admire the cut.

My mother, Blythe, stood behind her, adjusting the veil attached to a pearl-encrusted tiara.

"I'm just saying," my cousin Bellamy was giggling from the makeup chair, her phone still in her hand, "the way she rolled down those three steps at the bottom looked like a bowling pin. If the photographer captured that sequence, we need to make it into a GIF for the bachelorette group chat."

"Bellamy, stop," Sloan purred, though her lips were curved in that wide, triumphant smirk I had known since childhood. "It wasn't funny. She completely ruined the entrance rehearsal. The quartet lost their tempo, and Thatcher looked like he wanted to kill someone."

"He was just stressed about the rain, darling," my mother said, smoothing Sloan’s bare shoulders with manicured fingers. "Don't give it another thought. Merritt always finds a way to introduce a dark cloud into every sunny day. She takes after your father’s sister—all misery and work ethic, no joy. The valet said she took a taxi back to the hotel. With any luck, she’ll have the good sense to stay in her room and sleep off her embarrassment."

Greer pushed the wheels of my chair forward.

The carbon-fiber casters rolled across the high-pile Aubusson carpet of the suite with a faint, velvet rustle.

"I didn't go to the hotel, Blythe," I said.

The music didn't stop, but the room died.

The bridesmaid holding the champagne bottle froze mid-pour, sparkling wine foaming over the rim of a flute onto a mahogany side table. Bellamy dropped her phone into her lap. The makeup artist paused with her contour brush hovering an inch from Sloan’s cheekbone.

Sloan spun around on the chaise lounge.

Her eyes dropped instantly to my right leg. The bulky, black orthopedic immobilizer was held straight by four industrial Velcro straps, extending outward horizontally on the wheelchair’s elevated support rail. My foot, still completely numb from the nerve compression caused by the dislocated meniscus, was swollen into a mottled blue-gray mass above my low-cut sock.

"Merritt?" Sloan’s voice pitched upward, sharp with immediate annoyance rather than shock. She stood up, her lace robe swirling around her bare ankles. "What are you doing here? Did you seriously rent a wheelchair? Are you out of your mind?"

My mother stepped forward, her silver morning gown catching the light, her face mottled with immediate, defensive fury.

"Who authorized you to bring that contraption in here?" Blythe hissed, glaring at Greer, who remained standing behind my chair like an unmovable granite pillar. "Merritt, get out of that chair this instant. Look at you! You're pale as a ghost, your clothes are rumpled, and you smell like a clinic. The guests are already parking at the chapel gates!"

"I have a non-displaced fracture of the tibial plateau, Mom," I said, my voice conversational, perfectly measured, and utterly cold. "My reconstructed ACL graft is torn completely through the anchor screw. And my lateral meniscus is shredded. I am scheduled for open revision surgery at Rhode Island Hospital on Tuesday morning."

Sloan rolled her eyes, letting out a loud, theatrical sigh that made the lace on her collar flutter.

"Oh, here we go," Sloan sneered, turning back to the vanity mirror to pick up her lipstick. "The tragic medical report. Merritt, you tumbled down four steps because you were wearing five-inch heels with an unstable knee. Nobody pushed you. You lost your balance because you were trying to show off how brave you were for descending the grand staircase without an escort."

"She didn't tumble, Sloan," a deep, quiet voice said from the doorway.

We all turned.

Thatcher stood in the entrance of the suite. He was already fully dressed in his charcoal morning suit, his silk cravat perfectly knotted, his hair damp from the walk across the courtyard. But his posture wasn't that of a joyful groom on his wedding morning.

His hands were buried deep in his trouser pockets. His face was gray, his mouth set in a thin, rigid line that I recognized immediately from my years of working with maritime investigators. It was the face of an auditor who had just opened the false ledger behind the safe.

"Thatcher, sweetheart!" Sloan squealed, her entire posture shifting into that soft, helpless, baby-doll persona she reserved exclusively for wealthy men. She took two delicate steps toward him, her hands reaching out for his lapels. "You're not supposed to see me before the ceremony! It’s bad luck!"

Thatcher didn't move forward to meet her. He stepped back half a pace, letting her hands fall into empty air.