Chapter 6 - The Scorched Earth
A wedding is a legal and commercial contract masquerading as a celebration of love. And contracts, as I well knew from my career as an executive design director, are strictly binding until one party defaults.
I spent Thursday working from a conference room in the offices of Harrison & Vance, a prestigious forensic litigation firm I retained with a ten-thousand-dollar cash retainer. The senior partner, Eleanor Harrison, was a sharp-tongued woman of sixty with an encyclopedic knowledge of Ohio financial fraud statutes.
"First," Eleanor said, tapping her gold fountain pen against the conference table, "the wedding vendors."
"I paid sixty-five thousand dollars out of my personal account for deposits," I stated calmly, sliding the receipts across the mahogany surface. "The Grandview Pavilion venue, the French caterer, the floral arrangements, the five-tier cake, the live band."
"All in your name?"
"Exclusively. Ryan's name was listed only as the groom, not as an authorized contracting agent."
"Excellent," Eleanor said, dialing the Grandview Pavilion on speakerphone.
The venue director, a woman named Beatrice whom Diane had verbally abused over napkin colors two weeks earlier, answered on the second ring.
"Beatrice, this is Claire Morgan. I am formally canceling the Morgan-Vance wedding scheduled for this Saturday."
A stunned silence hung on the line for three full seconds. "Ms. Morgan... are you certain? The cancellation penalty at this late stage means you forfeit fifty percent of the total fee."
"I am aware," I replied smoothly. "Keep the cancellation fee. However, per Section 14 of our contract, the remaining balance of thirty-two thousand dollars must be refunded immediately to the originating credit card—which is mine alone. Furthermore, Beatrice?"
"Yes, Claire?"
"I understand Mrs. Diane Vance booked an upgraded bridal suite and a luxury rehearsal dinner under my account number without my written consent yesterday afternoon."
"Yes! She said you authorized it over the phone—"
"I did not. That is unauthorized use of a payment method. If those charges are not reversed immediately, my attorney, Eleanor Harrison, who is listening to this call, will file a formal complaint with the state attorney general's consumer fraud unit by three o'clock today."
"Reversing now, Ms. Morgan," Beatrice stammered, the click of rapid keystrokes echoing over the line. "Right now."
One by one, the dominoes fell.
The florist: canceled. The orchids were redirected to Mount Carmel Hospital's pediatric ward.
The caterer: canceled. The dry-aged beef and champagne were converted into a charitable donation to a local women's shelter, with the tax deduction issued solely in my name.
The custom wedding gown: canceled and returned to the designer in New York.
By four in the afternoon, Diane’s personal credit cards—which were inextricably tied to the overdraft protections of the joint account she had illicitly manipulated—were declined.
My phone erupted. Fourteen missed calls from Ryan. Eight from Diane's sister. Three from numbers I didn't recognize.
Then came an email notification from my credit monitoring service:
*Alert: An attempt to access credit line #8832 at First National Bank of Ohio was blocked due to a Fraud Freeze.*
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Diane had made bail. She had walked out of jail, marched straight to a secondary lender to pull cash against the forged loan, and found the vault door slammed shut and bolted in her face.
***
