Chapter 5 - The Wedding Crashers
The reception at the Plaza Hotel was designed to be the event of the season.
Derek and my parents had spared no expense—using the two-hundred-thousand-dollar non-refundable deposit I had paid months prior. The room was decorated in white orchids, crystal chandeliers, and gold-trimmed velvet drapes. Two hundred of New York’s elite sat at round tables, drinking vintage Dom Pérignon and offering solemn, rehearsed condolences to my parents.
At the head table sat Derek Hale, wearing a white tuxedo, and Sloane, wearing the cheap replica of my grandmother’s dress.
Sloane looked radiant, her cheeks flushed with victory as she leaned in to kiss Derek’s cheek. She was holding a glass of wine, whispering to a reporter from The Daily Front Row about how "grief had brought two soulmates together."
My father stood up, clearing his throat, raising his glass to speak into the microphone.
“Friends,” Richard Mercer announced, his voice filled with practiced emotion. “Today is a bittersweet day. We lost my eldest daughter, Elena, to a tragic accident weeks ago—”
The heavy double doors at the back of the ballroom slammed open with a sound like a cannon shot.
The entire room went dead silent.
Two dozen broad-shouldered men in dark suits stepped inside first, forming two rigid flanks down the central aisle. Behind them walked Julian Vance-Vane.
And on his arm, holding her head high, wearing the authentic ivory silk gown and three million dollars in diamonds, walked me.
Gasps exploded across the room like a chain reaction.
A woman in the front row dropped her crystal glass, sending it shattering across the marble floor. My mother shrieked, pressing her hands over her mouth as if she were seeing a corpse walk out of hell.
Derek froze, his glass halfway to his mouth, his face turning the color of curdled milk.
Beside him, Sloane went completely rigid, her eyes bulging as she stared at my dress—then down at her own cheap, sagging polyester replica.
I walked down the central aisle with slow, deliberate grace, my heels clicking rhythmically against the stone floor. Julian walked beside me, his cold gray eyes sweeping over the crowd like a predator evaluating prey.
We stopped right at the foot of the head table.
“Elena?” Derek stammered, his voice squeaking. “You... you’re... you’re supposed to be in the hospital! You’re brain-damaged!”
“I was never brain-damaged, Derek,” I said, my voice echoing clearly through the silent, breathless ballroom. “My memory, in fact, is crystal clear.”
I turned my gaze to Sloane, whose face was twitching with pure, unadulterated panic.
“That’s a lovely dress, sister,” I said sweetly, looking down at her sagging neckline. “Though polyester really doesn't catch the light the way real silk does, does it?”
“Elena!” my father roared, recovering his speech as he rushed down from the stage. “What is the meaning of this outrage? How dare you ruin your sister’s memorial day!”
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Julian stepped forward, putting one hand casually in his pocket, his physical presence instantly halting my father in his tracks.
“Careful, Richard,” Julian warned softly. “You’re speaking to my wife.”
