Chapter 6 - The Weight of a Veil
Britney’s voice cut through the soft, string-quartet ambiance of the country club ballroom like a cracked bell.
“Of course you had to show up and ruin the rehearsal dinner, too.”
Her eyes were bloodshot, her professional makeup slightly smudged from whatever crying session she’d just dragged herself out of in the powder room. She looked less like a glowing bride and more like a girl who had finally realized she was holding onto a string that wasn't attached to anything anymore.
Around us, three bridesmaids paused mid-sip of their elderflower martinis, their heads snapping in our direction with that synchronized, predatory curiosity unique to wedding parties.
Greg didn’t flinch. He didn’t drop his posture. He simply smoothed the lapel of his tailored tuxedo, let out a soft, patient sigh, and played his part with the practiced ease of a man who had rehearsed this performance a dozen times in his head.
“It’s fine, honey,” Greg said, stepping smoothly between Britney and me, placing a warm, protective hand on the small of her back. His voice was pitched to carry just far enough to draw sympathetic murmurs from the nearby tables. “Morgan’s just... she’s under a lot of stress with her squadron. We talked about this. Family is complicated.”
“She’s not stressed, Greg, she’s malicious,” Britney snapped, tears welling up again as she pointed a manicured finger straight at my chest. “She missed Mom’s birthday dinner. She ruined Christmas with her flight schedules. And now, the night before my wedding—the one weekend in six months she was supposed to actually show up for me—she creates some ridiculous drama about an ID card just to make everyone look at her!”
In my ear, Keller’s voice crackled through the tiny hidden receiver with clinical detachment.
“Easy, Lieutenant. Let her talk. She’s giving us a clear audio baseline for the wire.”
I didn’t blink. I looked past Greg’s carefully arranged expression of brotherly martyrdom and focused entirely on my sister. Underneath the fury and the spoiled-brat posturing, there was something else in her eyes. Panic. Real, shaking panic that she was desperately trying to drown out with anger.
She wasn't just mad because I was there. She was terrified that if I stayed, the fragile, expensive world Greg had built around her might start showing its cracks.
“Britney,” I said, my voice deliberately flat, stripping away every ounce of the defensive sarcasm she expected from me. “I didn’t come here to ruin your dinner.”
“Then why are you standing here looking like a military tribunal?” she shot back, her voice rising. “Look at you! You’re wearing a funeral dress to a rehearsal dinner! You couldn't even bother to buy a new outfit because you wanted everyone to know how much you hate my life!”
“Morgan,” Greg interjected, his tone dripping with patronizing sweetness that made my teeth ache. He stepped an inch closer, lowering his voice so only I could hear the threat wrapped inside the velvet. “Why don’t you take a walk outside? You’ve made your point. You’ve upset your sister. If you care about her at all—even a fraction as much as you claim to—you’ll get back in your car and go back to base before you do any more damage.”
He thought he was managing me. He thought the threat of hurting Britney’s feelings was still my weak spot, the leverage he could use to sweep me off the board just like he’d swept my flight credential off my mother’s kitchen counter.
He didn't realize that the board had already changed.
“I’m not leaving, Greg,” I said softly. I reached up, slowly, and pretended to adjust my collar—just brushing the edge of the hidden mic so the recording array in the surveillance van down the lane caught every single frequency. “In fact, I think I’d like to stay for the toast. Especially the part where we talk about how you’re funding all of this.”
Greg’s smile didn’t break, but the muscle beneath his left eye gave a single, violent twitch.
“Excuse us for just a moment, darling,” Greg told Britney, keeping his arm firmly around her waist. He flashed a brilliant, blinding white smile to the surrounding bridesmaids. “Family meeting. We’ll be right back.”
He didn't wait for Britney to agree. He steered her—and me—hard to the left, away from the glittering tables and out through the heavy glass side doors toward the quiet, shadowed flagstone terrace overlooking the putting green.
The moment the heavy glass clicked shut behind us, cutting off the Vivaldi and the chatter, Greg dropped the mask.
His face went hard, grey, and cold.
“What did you just say?” Greg hissed, his voice dropping an octave as he shoved Britney gently behind him, treating her like an inconvenient prop he no longer needed to pretend to care about protecting.
Britney blinked, her tears instantly freezing on her cheeks as she looked between the two of us. “Greg? What is he—what is she talking about? What’s going on?”
“Nothing, sweetheart,” Greg said, his eyes never leaving mine, his voice dripping back into poisonous calm. “Your sister is just having a psychotic break because her career is circling the drain.”
“My career is fine, Greg,” I said, stepping forward into the amber glow of the terrace lantern. I let the weight of every interrogator’s question, every classified transport manifest, and every betrayal settle into my posture. “Though I can’t say the same for your shell corporation in the Caymans. Four hundred thousand dollars buys a lot of gardenias, doesn't it? Too bad the transaction trail is currently sitting on an OSI server at Dover.”
Greg stopped breathing. I could see it in the sudden, dead stillness of his chest.
Britney looked from Greg to me, her breath catching in her throat. “Four hundred thousand... what? Greg, what is she talking about? What money?”
Greg didn't look at her. His eyes were locked on mine, dark and venomous.
May you like
And then, the heavy glass doors behind us pushed open again, and Special Agent Keller walked out onto the terrace, two local deputies right behind him.
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