"By stopping the ceremony?"
"By telling him the truth! Laurie isn't who she says she is. She's a liability. A gold digger."
"A gold digger?" I repeat, staring at him. A laugh bubbles up in my throat, hysterical and sharp. "You think Laurie is marrying Mark for his money?"
"I know she is," Brooks says, his eyes dark. "I ran a background check. Her credit is frozen. She has zero liquid assets."
"Her credit is frozen because her identity was stolen last year," I correct him. "And she has zero liquid assets because they're all in a blind trust. Brooks, Laurie doesn't need Mark's money. Her trust fund is twice the size of his."
The silence that follows is deafening. The heart monitor beeps steadily, mocking him.
Brooks blinks. The anger on his face wavers, replaced by genuine confusion. "What?"
"She's a Vanderwaal," I say. "On her mother's side. She uses her dad's name to avoid exactly this kind of judgment from people like you. She paid for the wedding, Brooks. Every cent. The flowers, the venue, the open bar you would have enjoyed, had you not decided to play hero."
He stares at me. I can practically see his brain rewiring, recalculating the risk assessment in real-time.
"She paid for the wedding?" he repeats, his voice quieter.
"Yes. You weren't saving Mark from a gold digger. You were being a snob."
He closes his eyes. He lets out a long, ragged breath that seems to deflate him against the pillows. "I'm an idiot."
"Yes," I agree. "You are. And now you're an idiot with a concussion."
He opens his eyes again. The confusion is gone, replaced by a cold, brittle defensiveness. He realizes he has been bested, body and mind, by a woman in a ruined silk dress. He hates it.
He needs to regain the upper hand. Immediately.
He tries to sit up again, and this time he manages to prop himself up on one elbow, though his face goes pale with the effort.
"Where is my phone?" he demands.
"Charging." I nod toward the little shelf on the wall. "The battery was dead."
"Give it to me."
"Brooks, you have a head injury. You're not supposed to look at screens."
"I'm calling my lawyer," he says, holding his hand out. "And then I'm calling the police. Give me the damn phone."
Panic flares in my chest, hot and bright. This is it. The moment I've been dreading.
"I'd advise against that," I say, trying to sound like I have any leverage whatsoever.
He freezes, his hand still outstretched. A slow, incredulous look crosses his face. "Excuse me?"
"I said, I'd advise against it," I repeat, leaning against the bed rail to hide the trembling in my knees. "Think about the optics. You're Brooks Taylor. Your family is... well, your family. Do you want the headline to be 'Venture Capitalist Bested by Bridesmaid in Garden Brawl?' It doesn't exactly scream 'stable, level-headed investment partner,' does it?"
He stares at me. For a second, he looks genuinely stunned by my audacity. Then, his eyes narrow.
"Are you threatening me?" he asks, his voice dangerously quiet. "You're the one who committed assault at a wedding where I'm sure there are witnesses. Including, if I recall correctly, your best friend's fiancé. Mason Kincaid, isn't it?"
My stomach drops through the floor.
"No one noticed. Besides, Mason has nothing to do with this," I say quickly. Too quickly.
"Doesn't he?" Brooks tilts his head, studying my reaction with scientific interest. "He's a lawyer. A good one. Which means he knows exactly what the penal code says about battery."
