Chapter 3 - The Morning of Sabotage
The sun rose over the city in a blaze of crisp autumn gold, but the peaceful glow did nothing to soften the dread curling in my stomach. By six in the morning, my bridal suite at the boutique hotel was already a hive of controlled chaos. Tara arrived with two oversized iced coffees, a garment bag containing her emerald-green maid of honor dress, and the fierce, protective energy of a mother bear guarding her cub.
"First rule of the day," Tara announced, planting the iced coffee onto the vanity mirror counter before pulling me into a bone-crushing hug. "No crying unless it’s because Daniel looks ridiculously handsome in his charcoal tuxedo. Second rule: your phone stays in airplane mode."
"It already is," I said, pointing to my device resting silently on the nightstand. Even with cellular data turned off, the notifications had been stacking up like a digital avalanche over the hotel Wi-Fi before I severed that connection too. There were eighteen missed calls from my mother, six voicemails, and an ominous string of texts from my father warning me about 'destroying family unity over petty pride.'
At seven-thirty, my wedding coordinator, Shannon, slipped into the suite. She was holding an iPad and wearing her trademark combat-ready headset. She didn't look flustered, but her sharp gaze told me she had already been extinguishing fires downstairs.
"Morning, beautiful," Shannon said, kissing my cheek. "We’ve got hair and makeup setting up in the adjoining room. But before the glam squad starts brushing your eyelashes, I need to give you an operational update."
"What did Mom do?" I asked directly, leaning against the vanity.
Shannon sighed and tapped her screen. "At approximately five-forty-five this morning, your mother called the front desk of this hotel posing as you. She attempted to cancel the bridal party's champagne breakfast delivery, claiming there had been a sudden family emergency and the wedding was postponed."
Tara gasped, almost spilling her latte. "Are you kidding me? That is clinically insane!"
"The hotel manager has our password protocol on file, thanks to yesterday's little stunt with the smoke bombs," Shannon continued smoothly. "The front desk clerk asked Eleanor for the security phrase—which, as you know, is *Hydrangea Blue*—and when she couldn't provide it, she started screaming that the staff was enabling an ungrateful brat. The manager escorted her out of the lobby fifteen minutes later."
A cold shudder ran down my spine, followed immediately by an overwhelming sense of vindication. If Shannon hadn’t insisted on password-protecting every single vendor contract earlier this week, my morning would have been derailed into absolute panic.
"Is she still outside?" I asked, my voice surprisingly steady.
"No. Marcus, Daniel’s brother, took care of perimeter watch," Shannon replied with a wicked smirk. "Marcus and two of his rugby buddies are officially volunteering as guest coordinators at the church doors. They have a printed guest list with color photos. Anyone trying to bring confetti poppers, oversized balloons, smoke canisters, or uninvited cameras will be turned away at the curb."
By ten o'clock, the makeup artist was blending foundation across my cheeks while Tara steamed the delicate tulle of my ivory A-line gown. The room smelled of warm hairsprays, jasmine perfume, and fresh roses. Yet, the tranquility felt fragile, like glass suspended over concrete.
Just as the stylist began pinning pearls into my updo, the landline telephone on the hotel desk let out an ear-splitting ring.
Tara darted across the carpet and answered it before I could even flinch. "Bridal suite, Tara speaking." She listened for three seconds, her face hardening like granite. "Mr. Vance, I suggest you stop calling the room. Bonnie is getting ready to marry the love of her life. If you have something to say, say it to Shannon at the church."
She was about to slam the receiver down when she paused, her eyebrows knitting together in shock. Slowly, she turned the receiver toward me. "Bonnie... it's your dad. He says Chloe is at the hospital."
My heart plummeted straight into my shoes. I raised a hand to stop the makeup artist's brush. "Give me the phone."
"Bonnie, wait, don't fall for it—" Tara warned, but I took the receiver from her hand anyway.
"Dad?" I said.
My father’s voice came through the speaker, raspy, heavy with dramatic grief. "Bonnie. Finally. Your sister had severe abdominal cramping an hour ago. She’s in the emergency room at Saint Jude's right now. The doctors are running tests. The stress from your cruelty yesterday sent her into pre-term distress. Eleanor is beside herself. Are you happy now? Is your perfect little day worth the life of your niece or nephew?"
A heavy silence filled the hotel suite. Tara was watching me, her breath held. The makeup artist stopped her tools, looking awkward.
For ten seconds, the old Bonnie—the obedient daughter who apologized for existing, who surrendered her birthdays so Chloe could blow out the candles—screamed at me to drop everything, cancel the hair stylist, and rush to Saint Jude's Hospital.
Then I remembered the smoke bombs. I remembered Mom laughing with the DJ behind my back. I remembered Chloe’s smirk when she declared that my wedding was the only proper venue for her milestone.
"Which doctor is attending to her, Dad?" I asked quietly.
"What? What does that matter? She’s in the triage bay!" Dad barked.
"Saint Jude’s doesn't have an emergency obstetrics ward," I said, my voice dropping into an arctic register. "Saint Jude's is a specialized pediatric rehabilitation facility. The nearest emergency hospital to our parents' house is Mercy General. Did you forget where you were pretending to be?"
There was a dead, suffocating silence on the other end of the line.
I heard a muffled voice in the background—Mom’s distinct, shrill whisper: *Did she buy it? Tell her she has to come!*
Tears of pure, blinding anger pricked the corners of my eyes, but I swallowed them down with ferocious resolve. They weren't in an emergency room. They were sitting together in a kitchen, concocting a medical crisis just to force me to cancel my wedding or beg them on my knees.
"Don't call this room again, Dad," I whispered, every syllable coated in venom. "And don't bother coming to the church. The doors will be locked against you."
I slammed the heavy receiver onto the cradle. The crash echoed through the luxurious suite. My hands were shaking, vibrating with an adrenaline rush so intense I felt lightheaded.
Tara immediately wrapped her arms around my shoulders. "You called their bluff. You did it, Bonnie."
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"They faked a medical emergency with an unborn child," I whispered, staring at my reflection in the gilded mirror. The woman looking back at me didn't look like the timid, overlooked middle child anymore. Her jaw was set. Her eyes burned with steel. "They actually used Chloe’s baby as a weapon to destroy my wedding."
"Then don't let them have a single second of your peace," Shannon said from the doorway, her arms crossed, her eyes blazing with professional fury. "Get into that dress, Bonnie. Daniel is already at the church. And he looks like he's ready to fight an army for you."
