Chapter 7 - The Morning After the EarthquakeThe morning sun filtered brightly through the sheer curtains of Grandma Rose’s sunroom, casting warm amber patterns across the vintage Persian rug.
I sat at the mahogany kitchen table, wrapping my hands around a steaming mug of black coffee. Across from me, Grandma was reading the digital edition of the Morning Herald on her tablet, her reading glasses perched low on her nose.
"Well," Grandma murmured, tapping the screen. "It seems the society pages didn't waste any time."
She turned the tablet toward me. The headline blazoned across the top of the digital lifestyle section read: FAIRYTALE TO NIGHTMARE: MILLION-DOLLAR WEDDING COLLAPSES IN SPECTACULAR FRAUD SCANDAL. Below it was a grainy photograph of Brooke sobbing in her ruined ivory dress on the St. Regis ballroom floor, her face half-obscured by her hair. The article detailed everything—the chair-pulling incident, Ethan’s public takedown, Helen’s arrest for wire fraud, and the sudden transfer of the Bennett family estate to an "unnamed working-class relative."
My phone buzzed on the table. It was the tenth text message notification I had received in the last hour.
Unknown Number: "Hey Claire, it's Tyler. Saw the news. That was honestly the most epic thing I've ever witnessed. Let's grab lunch this week?"
I smiled and set the phone face down.
"How are you holding up, sweetheart?" Grandma asked gently, setting her tablet aside. "I know this whole ordeal has been a whirlwind."
"Honestly, Grandma? I feel like I've been holding my breath for four years, and I finally just exhaled," I admitted, taking a sip of coffee. "I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Brooke or Helen to somehow pull another trick out of their sleeves."
"They won't," a deep voice said from the doorway.
We looked up. Ethan walked into the sunroom, holding a cardboard tray with two bakery croissants. He had ditched the tuxedo for a crisp blue button-down shirt and dark jeans, looking remarkably relaxed for a man whose wedding made national tabloid headlines less than twelve hours ago.
"Morning, ladies," Ethan greeted us with a warm smile. "Mr. Sterling just called me. Helen’s arraignment is scheduled for tomorrow morning. Her defense counsel tried to petition for bail, but given the offshore flight risk and the digital evidence, the judge denied it. She's staying in holding."
Grandma nodded slowly, her expression grim but unsurprised. "And Brooke?"
"Brooke is currently locked inside her penthouse apartment with her phone turned off," Ethan said, pulling out a chair and sitting down next to me. "Her so-called friends have unfollowed her en masse on Instagram. All her upcoming charity board chairmanships have quietly dropped her name. She’s radioactive."
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"Play stupid games, win stupid prizes," I quoted dryly, making Ethan laugh out loud.
"Truer words were never spoken," Ethan said, turning his gaze toward me. His brown eyes were intense, carrying a depth that made my stomach flutter slightly. "Which brings me to the real reason I came over early this morning."
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