Chapter 7 - The Final Chess Move
Friday night bled into Saturday morning with the terrifying speed of a nightmare.
Brooke had spent the last twelve hours locked in her guest suite. Security guards stood outside her double doors—not as protectors, but as wardens. She tried to call her mother, she tried to call her father, she even tried to dial emergency services, but every outbound signal was jammed by a portable cell-tower blocker operating within a fifty-yard radius of the room.
She was completely, utterly isolated.
At 10:00 AM on Saturday, the door unlocked.
Emma walked in, carrying a long, pristine white garment bag containing the five-thousand-dollar Vera Wang wedding dress. Behind her stood two makeup artists and a hair stylist holding professional kits.
“Get dressed,” Emma said coldly, setting the bag down on the bed.
“I’m not wearing that,” Brooke hissed, her eyes bloodshot from a night of frantic, silent crying. Her hair was tangled, her makeup smeared. “He’s going to humiliate me. He’s going to arrest me at the altar! I’m not walking into that church.”
Emma stopped at the door, turning back with a look of profound, pitying contempt.
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“You should have thought about the guest list before you tried to steal a dead woman’s trust,” Emma said. “Mr. Mercer doesn't arrest his enemies in private, Miss Harrington. He believes in full transparency. Now put the dress on. The car is waiting.”
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