Chapter 3 - The Staircase
The rehearsal dinner began shortly after six.
The estate's grand foyer was filled with white roses, crystal chandeliers, and guests wearing clothing that could have covered a year's mortgage payments.
Sloan had chosen the building primarily because of its sweeping marble staircase.
Her wedding planner wanted the bridal party to descend in pairs while the quartet played.
I explained that stairs were difficult for me.
The planner offered an elevator.
I accepted immediately.
Then Sloan overheard us.
“No. Absolutely not.”
She marched across the foyer in five-inch designer heels.
“The entire bridal party enters together. That's the photograph.”
“I'll meet everyone at the bottom,” I offered.
“No, Merritt. You agreed to be a bridesmaid.”
The planner looked uncomfortable.
“We can adjust the sequence.”
Sloan ignored her.
“Just hold the railing. Honestly, this is getting ridiculous.”
I looked toward my parents.
Mom was inspecting the floral arrangements.
Dad was discussing wine with Thatcher's father.
Neither intervened.
So I took the groomsman's offered arm and approached the staircase.
The first few steps went slowly.
I held the polished banister with my left hand and kept my weight on my good leg.
Below us, the quartet began playing.
A photographer adjusted his camera.
I had reached the middle landing when Sloan suddenly hurried down behind me.
“Move! The flowers are crooked!”
She brushed past my shoulder.
Then I felt her heel catch behind my left ankle.
My good leg.
Before I could recover, something struck my upper back.
Her shoulder.
Hard.
My hand slid off the railing.
My left foot disappeared from beneath me.
For one fraction of a second, I was suspended above the next step.
Then my injured knee hit the marble.
I heard the impact before I understood what had happened.
I fell down the remaining stairs, twisting sideways, my brace scraping against the stone.
I landed at the bottom with my dress tangled around my legs.
The quartet stopped.
Someone shouted.
I tried to draw my right foot toward me.
It wouldn't move.
And Sloan laughed.
Not a nervous laugh.
Not the shocked reaction of someone who'd accidentally hurt another person.
She actually tilted her head back.
“Get up, Merritt! It was a joke!”
I reached toward the nearest guest.
“Please don't move my leg.”
But my mother pushed through the gathering crowd.
“You are making a spectacle of yourself.”
“Mom, call an ambulance.”
“People are staring!”
I looked directly at her.
“I cannot feel my foot.”
Dad arrived a moment later.
“Your sister bumped you. That is not a medical emergency.”
“Something snapped.”
“Then go sit down somewhere.”
Nearby, my cousin Bellamy sat in a velvet chair with her smartphone pointed directly at me.
She was recording.
When she noticed me looking, she lowered the phone and smirked.
That was when I realized the humiliation was part of the entertainment.
My father grabbed my arm.
“Come on. You're going back to the hotel.”
“Don't pull me up!”
He ignored me.
With help from a confused waiter, he forced me upright.
Pain shot through my knee when my injured leg touched the floor.
I nearly collapsed.
The waiter caught me and immediately suggested calling emergency services.
Dad waved him off.
“She just needs to rest.”
He handed a valet twenty dollars and instructed him to help me into a waiting taxi.
I was thirty-four years old, injured badly enough that I could barely stay conscious, and my father was paying someone to remove me before dinner service.
As the taxi pulled away, the driver checked his rearview mirror.
“Ma'am, are you sure you don't need the emergency room?”
I looked at my swollen leg.
“Yes. Please take me there.”
My phone buzzed.
An unknown number had sent me a video.
There was no message.
Just an attachment.
I pressed play.
The clip showed me descending the staircase, Sloan rushing toward me, and her heel catching my ankle.
Then it showed me falling.
But that wasn't the worst part.
The camera moved upward, revealing Sloan laughing while I lay at the bottom.
Behind her, Bellamy's voice could be heard.
“Oh my God, that was perfect.”
I watched it twice.
Then I forwarded the file to my personal email, uploaded it to secure cloud storage, and put the phone down.
May you like
I finally understood what Thatcher had seen on the staircase.
But I still didn't know the whole story.
