Before I could even recover my balance, a blur of massive, white tulle and silk rushed toward us.
It was Chloe. The bride.
Her face was contorted into an ugly, furious scowl, completely devoid of bridal joy. She looked at Arthur not as her grandfather, but as a disgusting, senile prop that had ruined her perfect, expensive photograph.
“Get him out of here!” Chloe shrieked, her voice echoing shrilly in the vast ballroom.
In a fit of pure, unhinged, bridal entitlement and blind rage, she didn’t just yell. She stepped forward and shoved Arthur’s shoulder.
It wasn’t a gentle push. It was a hard, aggressive, physical shove.
Arthur was eighty-two years old. His balance was frail. He couldn’t catch himself.
The heavy, ornate banquet chair tipped backward.
With a sickening, heavy, hollow
thud
