The sound of two hundred dollars’ worth of Dom Pérignon shattering against Italian tile didn’t scare me. What scared me was the manic triumph in my sister Cassie’s eyes as she screamed that my wheelchair looked like “an ugly lump of coal ruining her perfect engagement photo.”
Then she grabbed my arms and yanked me forward into the champagne tower. The crystal pyramid exploded around me.
Glass sliced my hands, my face, my neck. My head cracked against the floor hard enough to blur my vision. Blood mixed with sparkling wine across white tiles in a grotesque rosé while I lay there unable to move my legs, unable to stand, surrounded by a hundred shocked guests at Magnolia Springs Botanical Garden.
But Cassie had made one fatal mistake. She didn’t know that the elegant woman who rushed over and stabilized my neck with the practiced efficiency of a trauma surgeon was Dr. Helena Kingsley—the groom’s aunt and the neurosurgeon who had drilled eight screws into my spine twenty-four months ago to save my life.
And this time, Dr. Kingsley wasn’t using a scalpel. She was using the law.
The invitation to Cassie’s engagement party had arrived three weeks earlier in looping calligraphy on cream cardstock: “Spring Pastel Dress Code – Baby Pink or Mint Green – No Exceptions.” I’d complied, finding a pale pink silk dress at Nordstrom Rack that draped nicely over my atrophied legs. I’d even styled my hair in soft waves, wanting to look pretty despite everything. My ultralight carbon wheelchair was matte black—a specialized piece of equipment worth five thousand dollars that represented two years of saving every disability payment, every birthday check, every dollar from freelance editing work.
At eighteen pounds, it moved like a dream compared to the clunky hospital-issued chair I’d used those first devastating months after the accident. This chair was my freedom, my independence, my ability to navigate the world without constant help. I never thought Cassie would care about the color.
I was wrong about many things back then. The botanical garden was a pastel fever dream when I arrived. Pink roses and mint hydrangeas spilled from every surface.
Gossamer ribbons twisted around white columns. A string quartet played near a marble fountain. This was Cassie’s vision of perfection, and I was about to become the single black mark on her pristine canvas.
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