Chapter 2 - The Ruptured Veil
Lace tore with a sound like a pistol shot.
Vanessa screamed, clutching her chest as the pearl buttons snapped off the silk bodice, bouncing across the marble steps like hail. The guests gasped in horror, several standing up on their seats to get a better view.
"Emily!" Daniel yelled, grabbing Emily’s wrists.
Emily didn't fight his grip. She simply looked down at his hands on her wrists, then looked up into his eyes with a cold, terrifying detachment that made him release her instantly.
"The wedding is over," Emily announced, her voice carrying clearly into every vaulted corner of the luxury chapel. "Keep the dress, Vanessa. It was paid for with my savings anyway. Keep the groom too—he clearly comes without a spine."
She turned on her split heel, pulled her remaining shoe off her right foot, and tossed both satin heels directly at Eleanor Whitman’s feet. One of them left a streak of black grease across the hem of Eleanor’s pristine lilac gown.
"Chloe," Emily called out, stepping down from the chancel. "We're leaving."
"You bet your life we are," Chloe spat, throwing a glare of pure venom at Eleanor before grabbing Emily's arm to support her. "And we're calling the police from the curb!"
"Wait! Emily, stop!" Daniel took two steps down the chancel, but his mother grabbed his forearm with a vice-like grip.
"Daniel! Do not run after that psychotic girl!" Eleanor hissed, her face flushed with dark red blotches. "Look at this room! Look at the press! If you go after her, the Whitman name is finished in this city!"
"Mother, let go of me!" Daniel barked, pulling his arm free, but he stopped at the top of the aisle. He stood there, frozen in his expensive tux, watching his bride walk barefoot away from him, leaving a trail of bloody footprints across the pristine white carpet.
Emily walked out of the double mahogany doors of the chapel, through the grand marble foyer, and straight out into the afternoon air of 5th Avenue.
The chill of the city air hit her bare skin like a splash of ice water, but she didn't shiver. Horns blared, yellow cabs zoomed past, and tourists stared as the bloodied, soot-covered woman in a ripped slip dress walked down the granite steps of the hotel.
Chloe burst through the doors behind her, throwing her own velvet trench coat over Emily's bare shoulders. "I have my car parked around the corner with the valet. I'm taking you to Bellevue right now."
"No hospital," Emily said, her teeth finally beginning to chatter as the adrenaline began to fade. "No hospital, Chloe. They'll file a report, and the hotel will try to cover it up before we can document anything."
"Emily, your hands are bleeding! You were locked in a basement!"
"Take me to the police station," Emily said, stopping on the sidewalk and looking back up at the glass facade of the Midtown hotel. "The 17th Precinct. I want a criminal complaint filed for unlawful imprisonment before Eleanor Whitman can pay off the hotel's head of security."
"Are you sure?" Chloe asked, her eyes searching her sister's bruised face.
Emily reached up and touched the torn comb of her veil, pulling the ragged piece of net from her hair and dropping it onto the grimy Manhattan sidewalk.
"I have spent four years being sweet, quiet, and accommodating," Emily whispered, her voice tightening like a bowstring. "I let that woman rewrite my life, my career, and my wedding. I am done being sweet."
A black SUV with tinted windows pulled up to the curb ten feet away. The rear door slid open, and a tall man in a tailored charcoal suit stepped out. He carried an expensive leather garment bag over his arm and had a silver-handled umbrella tucked under his elbow.
It was Julian Vance—head of Vance & Sterling Legal, the most ruthless corporate litigation firm in the tri-state area, and coincidentally, the man who owned the thirty percent non-voting stake in the Whitman Group that Eleanor had spent ten years trying to buy out.
Julian looked at Emily’s bare, bloody feet, then up at her bruised chin, and finally at the chapel steps where Daniel was just emerging, looking panicked.
"Miss Carter," Julian said, his voice deep, smooth, and entirely unbothered by the chaos surrounding them. He popped open the silver-handled umbrella and held it over Emily's head to block the sudden light drizzle. "It appears your nuptials have encountered a slight breach of contract."
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"Mr. Vance," Emily breathed, recognizing him from the rehearsed dinner seating charts his office had repeatedly rejected. "Did Eleanor send you to manage the optics?"
"Eleanor Whitman couldn't afford my hourly rate if she sold her soul," Julian replied dryly. He handed his silk pocket square to Chloe. "Wrap her right hand with that. My car is running. I believe you ladies were looking for an attorney who doesn't mind destroying a family legacy by dinner time?"
