Chapter 13 - The Ruined Bride’s Plea
The afternoon chill set in early as the October winds whipped across the Boston Common.
Outside the private gate of Montgomery Manor, a desolate figure stood shivering beside the wrought-iron fence.
Fiona Vance had been released on conditional unsecured bond, awaiting her formal trial date.
Her passport was surrendered to the federal marshals.
Her credit score had collapsed to zero.
Her former socialite friends had blocked her phone number on every social media platform.
She was wearing an oversized trench coat from a suburban thrift store, her bare ankles showing above worn sneakers.
She had walked three miles across the city on blistered feet, desperate for a single conversation.
When the heavy iron gates swung open to allow my private town car through, Fiona flung herself in front of the vehicle.
The driver slammed on the brakes with a sharp screech of rubber against asphalt.
Two security guards stationed at the gatehouse instantly drew their batons, moving swiftly toward the hood of the car.
"Stay back!" the lead guard shouted, grabbing Fiona’s arm before she could claw at the tinted glass.
"Mabel! Mabel, please! Just one minute!" Fiona screamed, her voice hoarse and raw from weeping in the cold.
"I know you’re in there! Don't let them arrest me again!"
I pressed the button on the armrest, rolling down the tinted rear window by three inches.
"Let her speak," I commanded the guard quietly.
The guard stepped back, keeping a firm grip on Fiona’s oversized coat sleeve.
Fiona pressed her dirty, trembling hands against the cold glass, looking down at me with frantic, hollow eyes.
"Mabel... look at me," she sobbed, tears cutting lines through the soot and dirt on her cheeks.
"The federal prosecutor says I’m going to a women's correctional camp in Danbury for three years."
"Three years, Mabel! In a federal prison with violent criminals!"
"I didn't forge those checks! Daddy told me to sign them so he could buy the wedding favors!"
I looked at the girl who had spent her entire youth wearing my stolen clothes and mocking my quiet sorrow.
"You knew the money wasn't Aidan's, Fiona," I said, my voice dead and cold as marble.
"When you were eighteen, you found my mother’s jewelry box in your closet."
"You knew those emeralds belonged to Clara."
"And when I asked you for just one brooch to remember my mother by, what did you do?"
Fiona’s lips trembled, her eyes darting away in shame.
"You took that brooch to school and laughed while your friends threw it into the harbor off the public pier," I reminded her, every word landing like an iron hammer.
"You told me that orphans don't deserve heirlooms."
"I was young! I was stupid!" Fiona cried out, dropping to her knees on the damp gravel.
"I’m sorry! I will get on television and apologize to you! I will tell the entire world that you are the real heiress!"
"Just tell your husband to drop the civil damages."
"If Montgomery Capital withdraws the civil lawsuit, the prosecutor said he might give me probation!"
"My husband doesn't drop lawsuits against people who assault his wife," Christian’s voice interrupted from the other side of the seat.
Christian leaned forward into the open frame of the window, his eyes narrowing like an executioner’s.
"You mocked Mabel's dress at your reception."
"You ordered the banquet waiter twenty dollars to pour cabernet down her back to make sure she looked ridiculous in family photographs."
Fiona gasped, her face turning chalk-white as she realized Christian had obtained the waiter's sworn confession.
"You wanted her to look like a joke, Fiona," Christian continued with chilling precision.
"Now, you are the joke."
"Every television station from New York to California has broadcast your mugshot in that gray hoodie."
"No old-money family will ever touch your name."
"No reputable firm will ever hire you."
"And when you finish your three years in Danbury, you will spend the rest of your youth working an hourly register to pay off our civil judgment."
Christian tapped the driver's partition.
"Roll up the window, Thomas."
"Mabel! No! Please! You’re my sister!" Fiona shrieked, banging her fists against the reinforced glass as the window slid closed.
"I am not your sister, Fiona," I said softly to the glass, though she could not hear me through the soundproofing.
"I was merely your victim."
May you like
"And today, the victim has left the building."
The town car accelerated smoothly through the grand iron gates, leaving Fiona Vance weeping on the wet gravel behind us.
