The Bride's Downfall: Revenge From a Wheelchair

By 7:30 AM, the private medical transport van was idling outside the hospital entrance. Vesper had not only arranged the transport; he had also dispatched a corporate investigator named Marcus to meet me.

Marcus was a towering man in a charcoal suit who possessed the expression of a disappointed shark. He handed me a fresh set of documents as the van’s hydraulic lift hoisted my wheelchair inside.

“I checked the resort’s financial ledger through our corporate contacts in their parent hospitality group,” Marcus said, leaning against the van door. “Your father didn't just hack your business account. He used your corporate tax ID—which you provided to the family trust last year for tax-filing purposes—to authorize the wire transfer directly from your business checking.”

I gripped the armrests of my wheelchair. “That’s grand larceny and corporate identity theft.”

“It is,” Marcus agreed, his lips curling into a sharp smile. “And because your business account is registered under a federal commercial contracting umbrella, wire fraud across state lines carries a mandatory federal inquiry. Do you want me to file the police report now, or wait until the wedding reception gets into the main course?”

“Let’s wait,” I said, my voice cold. “I want them to feel secure first. I want them walking down that aisle thinking they’ve won.”

Marcus nodded approvingly. “I like your style. I’ve already frozen the transfer on the banking side pending a fraud investigation. The resort’s finance department is going to panic when they realize the wedding deposit bounced due to a freeze order.”

During the two-hour drive back to the city, I didn't rest. I opened my laptop and began drafting a comprehensive legal notice of intent to sue, attaching every medical report, X-ray, and financial statement. But more importantly, I pulled up the contact information for Alden’s corporate office.

If anyone deserved to know what kind of family he was marrying into, it was the man whose multi-billion-dollar shipping empire was about to be tied to a nest of fraudsters and abusers.

When the medical van pulled up to my apartment building, my physical therapist and a nurse helped me settle into my home office setup. My leg was encased in a massive fiberglass cast from thigh to ankle.

At 11:00 AM, my phone began to ring incessantly.

First came Althia. Then Stellin. Then Sutton.

I let every single call go to voicemail.

Finally, a text message arrived from Sutton, written in all capital letters:

FALLON, WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU? THE PHOTOGRAPHER IS HERE AND EVERYONE IS ASKING WHY YOU’RE MISSING. IF YOU DON’T SHOW UP IN TWENTY MINUTES, I AM NEVER SPEAKING TO YOU AGAIN!