Chapter 8 - The Desperate Substitute
Without my sponsorship at The Grand Estate, Ryan and Chloe’s wedding plans crumbled into absolute chaos.
Over the next three weeks, news traveled fast through the local event network. In the high-end wedding industry, coordinators, venue owners, and caterers talk to one another. Word quickly spread that Ryan Vance had been dropped by Marcus Vance for severe personal misconduct, and that his sister—one of the most respected event directors in the city—had completely severed ties with him.
No high-end venue in the state wanted to touch them.
Desperate to avoid the utter humiliation of canceling the wedding entirely, Chloe’s parents took over the arrangements. They booked a secondary, aging banquet hall forty miles outside the city—a venue with outdated carpets, terrible lighting, and a reputation for mediocre catering.
The date was moved from a Saturday evening in October to a Thursday afternoon in November.
Half of their three hundred invited guests declined the RSVP, cited short notice, or simply avoided attending after seeing the security video that had circulated through our extended social network.
On the morning of November tenth—the day of Ryan’s rescheduled wedding—I was at my office, reviewing design proofs for a charity gala at the city museum.
My door opened, and Hannah stepped in, looking slightly amused.
"Emily, you might want to look at Instagram," she said, holding out her tablet.
I looked at the screen. Chloe had posted a series of desperate, highly filtered stories from the bridal suite of the suburban banquet hall.
The floral arrangements were sparse and visibly wilting. The wedding dress—a fifty-thousand-dollar designer gown—looked absurdly out of place against the faded floral wallpaper of the venue's dressing room.
In one video, Ryan was visible in the background, arguing heatedly with the hall’s manager over a broken air conditioning unit. He looked miserable, bloated, and utterly defeated.
My phone chimed on my desk.
It was a text from an unknown number. I opened it.
It was a photo sent by Chloe. It showed her standing in her wedding gown, crying into a tissue, with a short message attached:
This is all your fault, Emily. You ruined what was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. I hope you're happy.
I stared at the message for a moment. I felt no satisfaction, no joy, no malice. I felt only a profound, clean sense of closure.
I typed back a single, final response:
May you like
You married a man who laughs at five-year-old little girls, Chloe. Your venue is the least of your problems.
I blocked the number, closed my laptop, and packed my bag. It was four o'clock. It was time to pick up Sophie from her ballet class.
