Chapter 3 - The Unknown Sender
While Vesper was orchestrating the logistical and legal counter-strike from Seattle, my phone vibrated on the hospital tray table.
An unknown number.
I unlocked the screen with my thumb. A single video file had been sent via an encrypted messaging app, accompanied by a text: They thought I was just filming the bride. I caught the whole thing from the balcony.
My thumb hovered over the play button. I tapped it.
The screen flickered to life, showing the grand marble staircase of the resort. The string quartet was playing softly in the background. In the upper corner of the frame, I could see myself descending carefully, leaning on my wooden crutch, my heavy black brace locked in place.
Then Sutton glided into view.
The audio was crystal clear. You could hear the rustle of her silk dress. You could hear her talking to our cousin Briany just seconds before she moved.
“Watch this,” Sutton said clearly to Briany, pointing her chin toward me. “Mom said if she’s in the front row tomorrow, the photos are ruined. Watch how easy it is to make her trip over her own metal garbage.”
Then came the deliberate lunge. Sutton’s stiletto caught my ankle, her shoulder slammed into my upper spine, and she whispered viciously as I fell: “Fallon, stay down.”
As I tumbled down the steps, the camera captured Sutton throwing back her head, laughing hysterically, and shouting to the horrified guests: “It’s just content! Why is she crying for attention?”
The video ended.
I stared at the screen, my chest heaving. The timestamp showed it had been recorded by someone standing on the second-story mezzanine.
I looked at the sender's number. I didn't recognize it, but the metadata attached to the file pointed straight to a local resort guest registry. More importantly, it pointed to someone who had been sitting at the groom’s family table.
My phone buzzed again. A text from the same number: Alden saw it too. He checked out of the hotel twenty minutes ago. He’s looking for a lawyer who specializes in annulments based on fraud.
So Alden hadn't just walked out in shock. He had walked out to destroy her.
The door to my hospital room pushed open quietly. A nurse walked in with a clipboard, but behind her stood two men in sharp dark suits holding medical transport paperwork, followed closely by a private EMT crew pushing a state-of-the-art motorized wheelchair with an extended leg rest.
""Fallon Mercer?"" the lead paramedic asked politely.
""That's me,"" I said, sitting up as straight as my aching spine would allow.
""Vesper sent us. We have a private Gulfstream waiting at the municipal airstrip equipped for medical transport, and a legal team standing by at your downtown office.""
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I swung my legs over the side of the hospital bed, gritting my teeth as the heavy black brace settled into its locked position. The pain radiated up my thigh, hot and sharp, but for the first time all weekend, it didn't feel like a defeat.
It felt like the opening salvo.
