Chapter 4 - The Poisoned Toast
The tradition at Whitlock weddings was for the groom’s family to offer the first toast, followed by the bride’s.
Daniel’s father, Richard Whitlock, stood up first. His speech was short, elegant, and entirely focused on legacy, family values, and the integration of the "charming, simple Clark family" into their historic line. My mother wiped away a fake tear, clutching my father's arm.
Then, it was Sloan's turn to present her family's response.
Sloan walked to the microphone, her lavender-clad bridesmaids lining up behind her like a royal court. She took the mic, her eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on me at Table 32.
"Thank you, everyone," Sloan said, her voice sweet and tremulous. "I want to thank my beautiful mother and father, who have supported me through every step of this journey. And, of course, my new family, the Whitlocks, who have welcomed us with such open hearts."
She paused, looking directly at me.
"And finally, I want to mention my older sister, Emma," Sloan said.
A quiet murmur ran through the crowd. Guests turned to look at the orange dress at the back table.
"Emma has had a difficult time since she returned from her deployment," Sloan said, her voice dripping with pity. "We were so worried she wouldn't be able to make it today. She... she has some struggles with social situations, as you can probably see from her choice of attire. But we wanted her here anyway. Because in our family, we don't turn our backs on those who are... unwell."
My mother nodded solemnly from her table, her eyes wide with manufactured grief. My father stared at his plate, his face a dark red.
Sloan smiled, lifting her champagne glass. "To Emma. We love you, sister. We hope you find peace."
"To Emma," a few guests muttered awkwardly, raising their glasses.
I sat there, my shoulders square, my face a mask of granite. I didn't touch my glass.
Beside me, Leo was white with anger. "That was a public execution," he whispered. "I'm so sorry, Emma."
"Don't be," I said, my voice completely steady. "She just committed the first rule of tactical failure."
"What’s that?"
"She assumed her enemy was out of ammunition."
As Sloan stepped back from the microphone, Eleanor Whitlock stood up from Table 1. She did not look at the bride. She walked straight to the podium, her movement fluid and commanding.
The room went silent. It was not on the program for the matriarch to speak.
May you like
Eleanor took the microphone. She looked out over the three hundred guests, her gaze passing over Sloan, over my mother, and finally settling on me.
"I would like to add a final toast," Eleanor said, her voice clear and carrying to every corner of the glass pavilion. "To the truth."
