Chapter 12 - The Maid of Dishonor
"You bitch!"
The scream came from behind me.
Claire lunged, her manicured nails clawing toward my face. "You ruined my life! You’ve always had everything! The money, the family, the company, and you wouldn't even let me have this! You think you’re better than me because Uncle Richard picked you?!"
Before she could reach me, my security team intercepted her, grabbing her by both wrists and twisting her arms firmly behind her back.
"Let go of me!" Claire shrieked, kicking wildly in her emerald green gown. "Elena, you can't do this to me! We’re blood! I’m your cousin! Aunt Sarah would roll over in her grave!"
"My mother taught me that a viper in the nursery gets its head crushed, Claire," I said, looking down at her with pure, cold pity. "She wouldn't roll in her grave. She’d hand me the stone."
Two Raleigh Police cruisers pulled into the gravel drive, their blue and red lights flashing silently through the weeping willows.
Two uniformed officers and an investigator in a plain dark suit walked briskly down the center aisle.
The investigator—a sharp-eyed woman with a badge clipped to her belt—stopped before the altar. "Elena Vance?"
"Detective Miller," I nodded. "Thank you for being punctual."
"Julian Thorne and Claire Vance?" the detective asked, pulling a set of legal warrants from her breast pocket.
Julian was slumped against the wooden trellis, his tuxedo jacket crooked, looking like a man who had already suffered a fatal stroke. "Warrants? On what grounds?"
"Conspiracy to commit grand larceny, identity theft, and attempted forgery of a statutory legal instrument under North Carolina General Statute 14-118," Detective Miller recited crisply. "Your notary, Sarah Miller, turned state’s evidence two hours ago when we brought her in for questioning. She gave us the original drafts and your text instructions, Miss Vance."
Claire stopped struggling. Her eyes went completely hollow. "Sarah... she told you?"
"She sang like a canary," the detective said, gesturing to the uniformed officers. "Cuff them both."
The sharp *click-clack* of stainless steel handcuffs echoed across the silent garden.
The two hundred and fifty guests—the wealthiest, most powerful people in the state—watched in stunned, breathless silence as the groom and the maid of honor were turned around, their hands cuffed behind their backs, and led down the white wedding runner they were supposed to walk as triumphant conquerors.
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As Julian passed Dante Silva in the aisle, the Miami lender leaned in close, whispering something into Julian’s ear that made Julian’s legs completely give out. The two officers had to drag him the rest of the way to the cruiser.
***
