Chapter 7 - The Weight of Gold
The diamond ring slid off her finger with a wet, sickening pop, dropping onto the marble floor and rolling away into the shadows beneath an empty banquet table. Stephanie didn't chase it. She simply stared at her bare, bruised finger, her chest heaving as the last remnants of her societal identity stripped away piece by piece.
“What happens to me now?” Stephanie asked, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper.
Detective Miller closed the Manila folder with a soft, definitive thud. “That depends on whether you knew about the asset transfers, Miss Vance. If you signed the corporate declarations without reading them—which our preliminary audit suggests you did—you won't face criminal charges. But you are legally liable for every cent of restitution.”
“Restitution?” Stephanie’s voice rose hysterically. “I have three dollars in my checking account and a maxed-out credit card in my clutch! My father’s accounts are frozen, the house is seized, and my wedding was a federal sting operation! Where am I supposed to get millions of dollars?”
“That is a question for your bankruptcy lawyer,” Detective Miller said flatly, turning on her heel and walking toward the exit without another word.
Stephanie stood in the middle of the sprawling, empty ballroom. The caterers were already rolling away the untouched wedding cake, wheeling the multi-tiered confection past her like a mobile tombstone. The imported white roses smelled sickly sweet in the warm air, turning her stomach with their cloying perfume.
She turned and walked out of the Grand Hotel through the service entrance, avoiding the paparazzi who had already begun gathering outside the main lobby. The autumn wind hit her bare shoulders with a sharp, freezing bite. She had no coat, no car keys, and no phone—her smartphone had been left in the bridal suite upstairs, now locked behind a federal warrant.
For the first time in her twenty-five years of life, Stephanie Vance was entirely on her own.
She walked for six blocks before her satin shoes gave out, the heels snapping off entirely on the cracked concrete of a gritty industrial district. She kicked the shoes off, walking barefoot across the cold pavement, her sheer white stockings shredding against the gravel until her soles were stained gray with grime.
By dusk, she found herself standing outside a small, neon-lit diner on the outskirts of the city. The sign buzzed and flickered, casting a sickly red glow over the greasy asphalt. Through the steamy front window, she saw a row of vinyl booths and smelled the heavy, unmistakable scent of fried food and stale coffee.
She pushed the glass door open, the cheap brass bell jangling overhead.
The waitress behind the counter—a tired-looking woman with graying hair tied back in a loose knot—looked up as Stephanie stepped inside. The woman’s eyes swept over the torn white lace dress, the dirt-streaked legs, and the wild, tangled mess of light brown hair.
“We close in ten minutes,” the waitress said, her voice rough but not unkind. “If you want coffee, it’s cash upfront.”
May you like
Stephanie reached automatically for her pearl necklace, intending to rip it off and pawn it for a cup of black coffee, but her fingers found only empty air. She had thrown the necklace into the cathedral aisle hours ago.
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