"GET UP, SLOANE! YOU'RE RUINING MY WEDDING!" My sister laughed from the marble staircase as I lay below, my surgical brace twisted and blood soaking my dress. My mother stepped over broken glass, grabbed my arm, and hissed that the guests were watching. Then I spotted my cousin's phone still recording. Darcy had no idea what else the cameras caught....

The door to my room clicked open at eight o'clock.

Callum walked in, carrying a fresh cup of coffee and a garment bag. His eyes were red-rimmed, his jaw covered in dark stubble. He looked like a man who had spent eight hours standing under a cold, relentless shower.

He set the coffee on my table, pulled up a vinyl chair, and sat down. For a full minute, he didn't speak. He just looked at the thick white cast enclosing my right leg, the steel pins protruding through the plaster, and the IV lines taped to my wrist.

"She kicked you," he said. His voice was hollow, stripped of all the easy warmth he usually carried.

"You were there, Callum."

"I was behind the archway. I saw you fall, but I thought... God help me, Sloane, I thought she just crowded you and you lost your balance. Then Brea showed me the screen recording this morning at five." He buried his face in his hands. "She smiled. She looked right into the camera, whispered to Brea to broadcast it, and kicked you. She kicked your surgical leg."

"She needed the narrative," I said calmly, sipping the black coffee. "Darcy cannot exist in an environment where she is not either the most glamorous victor or the most tragically burdened victim. A disabled sister leaning on crutches ruins the aesthetic of her high-fashion processional. An injured sister who makes a scene makes Darcy the long-suffering bride who soldiered on despite family dysfunction."

Callum lowered his hands. "Your mother spent the entire breakfast telling the table that you have a prescription drug dependency. She told my parents that you became hysterical, threw yourself down the stairs, and that the family is considering an intervention after the honeymoon."

I let out a short, quiet laugh. "Of course she did. Did she mention where my medication went?"

"She told my mother she confiscated it to protect you." Callum leaned forward, his knuckles white against his knees. "I walked into Darcy’s suite an hour ago. She was drinking champagne with three bridesmaids. She had your corporate card sitting on the vanity. She laughed about how your 'rich boat company' was footing the bill for the reserve Dom Pérignon."

"She spent forty-seven thousand dollars, Callum."

"I know." He reached into his coat pocket and placed a sleek gold USB drive on the bedside table. "This is the raw, uncompressed 4K video from Brea’s phone. Brea was terrified Darcy would delete it from the cloud, so she backed it up onto my drive. And there’s something else."

He pulled out a folded sheet of paper.

"What is that?"

"Darcy’s personal ledger. She left her planner open on the desk. She hasn't just been using your card. She took out three high-interest personal loans in my name two months ago using my forged electronic signature to pay her design vendors. She told me the deposits were from her influencer sponsorships."

I looked at Callum. There was no grief left in his expression—only the cold, calculating fury of an intelligent executive who finally realized he had been treated as an accessory to his own fleecing.

"What are you going to do?" I asked.