Chapter 2 - The Fall and the Livestream
The impact rattled through the titanium screws in my tibia. When Darcy’s pointed stiletto heel drove into the lateral side of my reconstructed joint, the sound was not subtle. It was a sickening, fibrous snap, like dry wood splintering under a hydraulic press.
I hit the polished Italian marble five steps below, my left shoulder absorbing the primary collision before my forehead struck the brass edge of the decorative runner. The world narrowed to a blinding white flash. The air evacuated my lungs in a strangled, involuntary gasp.
Five steps above me, my younger sister did not trip. She did not stumble. She stood perfectly balanced against the gilded wrought-iron balustrade, her manicured fingers resting lightly on the cold metal, a small, vindictive smirk playing across her glossed lips.
"Darcy..." The word scraped out of my throat, tasting of copper and dust.
"GET UP, SLOANE! You're ruining my wedding rehearsal!" Darcy’s voice rang across the cathedral ceiling of the Meridian Cliff House’s grand foyer, melodic and pitched for an audience. "Stop playing the victim! It was a graze! You threw yourself down because you can't stand not being the center of attention!"
From the base of the staircase, my mother, Imogen, moved. She did not rush forward with a mother’s instinct to cushion my head or inspect the unnatural angle of my lower leg. Her silk skirt rustled sharply as she stepped over a fallen crystal champagne flute. Her hand gripped my upper arm, her fingernails biting through my cardigan down to the bone.
"Get on your feet this instant," Imogen hissed, her breath smelling of peppermint and expensive gin. "Callum’s parents are standing right by the conservatory doors. Senator Vance is here. Stop embarrassing your sister."
"Mom," I managed, the agony radiating up my hip in rhythmic, electric surges. "Look at the brace. She kicked the surgical plate. It’s displaced."
Beneath the hem of my charcoal trousers, the rigid carbon-fiber struts were twisted forty-five degrees outward. Warm, viscous blood was already saturating the cotton lining, soaking through the weave of my slacks and pooling against the white marble floor.
"I don't care about your dramatics," Imogen whispered furiously, attempting to haul me upright by my collar. "You stand up, walk out to the courtyard, and fix your face. You are not ruining this weekend."
Then a roar cut through the lobby.
"Don't touch her! Imogen, take your hands off her right now!"
Callum broke through the frozen circle of bridesmaids and groomsmen. His tuxedo jacket was unbuttoned, his face pale with horror. He shoved past my father, Gideon—who stood with his hands tucked into his slacks, staring at the ceiling as if waiting for rain—and dropped to both knees directly beside me on the blood-smeared floor.
"Sloane, don't move," Callum said, his voice trembling but firm. He stripped off his jacket and gently laid it over my shivering shoulders, avoiding my crushed leg. "Someone call an ambulance! Now!"
"Callum, darling, don't encourage her," Darcy called down, her tone switching instantly to an airy, patronizing pout. "She tripped on her own hem because she refused to wear sensible shoes. She's doing this to sabotage our dinner."
"Shut up, Darcy," Callum snapped, not looking back. It was the first time in the three years they had dated that I had ever heard him speak to her with anything other than mild indulgence.
Darcy’s mouth dropped open. "Excuse me?"
I forced my head to turn slightly toward the arched entrance. Standing beside a towering marble urn was our nineteen-year-old cousin, Brea. Her phone was locked horizontally in both hands, mounted on a miniature stabilizer. The small red recording indicator glowed steadily.
Darcy had whispered *Start the livestream* because she wanted forty thousand Instagram followers to watch her sister make an awkward scene and ruin a picture-perfect rehearsal. She had wanted content. She had wanted sympathy.
Instead, Brea had caught the entire descent. She had captured the deliberate rear-leg kick, Darcy’s satisfied laugh, Imogen’s brutal manhandling of my shattered limb, and the puddle of arterial red darkening the pristine white stone. Brea was staring at her screen with wide, horrified eyes, her thumb hovering over the interface.
"Brea," Darcy commanded sharply, sensing the shift in the room's atmosphere. "End the broadcast. Delete the local cache."
May you like
Brea didn't delete it. She backed slowly toward the double doors, clutching the phone to her chest as the wail of sirens echoed from the coastal highway outside.
***
