In her fury and haste, Cassie stepped on the hem of her long dress. I saw her stumble, her arms flailing wildly as she struggled to keep her balance.
Her grip on me loosened and then disappeared completely as she dodged backwards, trying not to fall.
She regained her composure, took a step back, and found her balance with the grace of someone who still had perfect control of her body.
I wasn’t so lucky.
My lower body was immobile, a dead weight I could neither control nor compensate for. The momentum of its pull propelled me forward. I had no leg muscles to hold me up, no abdominal strength to right myself.
I was falling, and I couldn’t do anything to stop it.
The champagne pyramid stood right in front of me, a sumptuous seven-tiered composition of crystal glasses filled with a golden, sparkling liquid. It probably cost more than my monthly rent. And certainly more than I was worth in Cassie’s eyes.
I hit it with my shoulder and chest, and the whole structure collapsed.
The noise was unbearable, a deafening crash of shattering glass, like violent wind chimes. Hundreds of shards exploded. I felt them tear at my hands as I tried to break my fall. I felt them cut my face, my neck, my arms.
A sharp pain invaded my skin in a dozen places.
My head snapped to the side, hitting the tiles so hard that my vision blurred. The priceless bottle perched atop the pyramid—that $200 Dom Pérignon someone had placed there like a crown—fell heavily onto my shoulder before rolling away.
The blood began to spread across the white tiles, mingling with the champagne to form a grotesque rosé.
My pink dress was soaked, and I could no longer distinguish what was wine from what was blood.
My hands looked like they had been through a paper shredder; glass was embedded in my palms and fingers.
The entire garden fell into a deathly silence; no more music, no more chatter. Only the sound of champagne continuing to drip from the edge of the stage and my panting breaths could be heard.
I lay there, unable to move, too scared to move.
My neck ached, my head was buzzing. And somewhere above me, I heard Cassie’s voice, high-pitched and hysterical.
« Oh my God, my $5,000 dress, you’ve ruined my party! »
No, « Are you okay? » No, « Help! » No, « Get up immediately! »
I couldn’t see her. From my position on the ground, all I could see were chair legs and horrified faces, but I could hear her perfectly. I could hear her total indifference, her narcissistic obsession with herself, with her party, with her dress.
Someone cried out in terror. Several people started to move forward to help, but a voice pierced the silence like a knife.
« Stay still, and let no one touch her. »
The voice was feminine, authoritative, the kind of voice that one obeys without question.
Despite my blurry vision, I saw a woman drop her Gucci bag on the lawn and bump into a waiter. She walked forward with a determined stride, with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what to do in an emergency.
She knelt beside me in the pool of wine and blood, unconcerned by her elegant cream-colored pantsuit. Her hands, both gentle and firm, rested on either side of my head, stabilizing my neck according to the standard medical technique for the cervical spine.
« Listen to me carefully, » she said in a calm, professional voice. « Don’t move. Don’t turn your head. I’m going to keep you still until the paramedics arrive. »
I knew that voice.
Dr. Helena Kingsley. Greg’s aunt. Head of neurosurgery at Mount Sinai Hospital. The one who saved my life 24 months ago.
Dr. Kingsley looked up and his piercing gaze met Greg’s in the crowd.
« Call 911 immediately. Report a spinal injury and an assault. Request police and an ambulance. Right away. »
« An assault? » Cassie’s voice became shrill. « What are you talking about? She fell. It was an accident. »
But Dr. Kingsley wasn’t looking at Cassie. She was looking at me. And something in her expression, a mixture of recognition and fury, made me realize that she knew exactly who I was. She had known from the moment she saw me fall.
« Matilda Wells, » she said softly, just to me. « I know you. I’ll take care of you. You’re safe now. »
And despite the pain, despite the blood, despite everything, I felt something inside me finally being freed.
I was no longer alone.
The minutes that followed unfolded in a strange bubble, as if disconnected from the world. Time flowed differently when you were lying on the ground, immobilized by the firm hands of someone who knew how fragile your spine was.
I could hear everything, every whisper, every sigh of surprise, every click of the camera, but I was unable to react. I couldn’t turn my head. I could only gaze at the perfectly blue sky and the interlacing branches above me, while Dr. Kingsley maintained his grip.
« You’re doing very well, Matilda, » she said gently. « Keep breathing. Slowly and steadily. There. »
Somewhere to my right, Cassie was sinking.
« Aunt Helena, you’re exaggerating, » she said, her voice betraying the particular panic that accompanies the realization of a narcissist who is losing control of the situation. « She’s faking it. She can walk. She’s putting on an act just to ruin my day. »
Dr. Kingsley’s hands never left my head, but his voice could have chilled me to the bone.
“Miss Wells,” she said loud enough for everyone to hear, “I personally inserted eight pedicle screws into your sister’s T10 and T11 vertebrae 24 months ago at Mount Sinai Hospital. I know the structure of her fractured bones better than she does.”
A collective breath swept through the crowd. I couldn’t see their faces, but I could imagine them: the slow awakening of awareness, the pieces of the puzzle coming together.
« Do you want to debate medical knowledge with the head of the neurosurgery department? » continued Dr. Kingsley, his tone making it clear that this was not actually a question.
Cassie remains silent. A blessed, magnificent silence.
The confirmation from a prominent medical expert carried far more weight than all of Cassie’s lies. All the rumors whispered throughout the evening – Munchausen syndrome, malingering, attention-seeking – collapsed like a champagne pyramid, shattering into a thousand pieces.
From my position on the ground, I could now make out some of the guests more clearly. An elderly woman I didn’t recognize had her hand over her mouth, tears in her eyes. A young couple stood frozen, the man shielding the woman with his arm. And there, out of the corner of my eye, was Greg.
His face had turned completely white, his expression betraying a terrible shock.
Cassie remained frozen, her impeccable hairstyle beginning to unravel, her $5,000 dress stained with champagne and, I noted with grim satisfaction, a few drops of my blood.
Around us, murmurs spread through the crowd like wind through grass.
« Did you see what she did? » someone whispered. « She pulled her out of the wheelchair. »
« Poor little girl. Will she make it? »
« Someone said that the sister was also sending text messages during the car accident. Is that true? Is she really the cause? »
As for me, lying there amidst the pain and chaos, with shards of glass still embedded in my skin and dried, sticky blood on my face, I thought: Ah, I’m still alive. How could it get any worse?
It was almost funny, in a macabre way. Having survived a terrible Jeep accident that had destroyed my ballet dreams and my future, that had left me with eight screws holding my spine and no feeling below my waist, had given me a certain calm.
An absolute survival experience. I had already faced the worst I could imagine. Everything else was just details.
But this — this public revelation, this exposure of Cassie’s true nature — was something new. Something that almost felt like a form of justice.
The sound of sirens ripped through the garden, growing louder and louder. Within minutes, the paramedics surrounded me, their movements swift and precise. They worked in close collaboration with Dr. Kingsley, who gave them a quick overview of my condition and medical history.
« Full T10 diagnosis, hardware in place, recent head and neck trauma, » she listed. « Multiple lacerations, possible concussion. I want her in a neck brace and immobilized on a backboard. Someone call County General Hospital and tell them Helena Kingsley is accompanying the patient and that I’m requesting imaging tests immediately. »
The paramedics didn’t question her. When a neurosurgeon gives orders, they are obeyed.
They put a rigid neck brace on me, gently placed me on a backboard, and strapped me down. Every movement aggravated the pain of my cuts, but I bit my lip and remained silent.
I’ve seen worse. I’ve survived worse.
As I was being hoisted onto the stretcher, I finally got a full view of the scene. The collapsed pyramid of champagne, the blood-soaked tiles, the scattered shards of crystal catching the afternoon sun like diamonds. And the guests, at least fifty of them, all staring at the scene with expressions that blended horror, pity, and a morbid fascination.
This was supposed to be Cassie’s perfect day, her moment of glory.
On the contrary, it had become his weak point.
Two police officers had arrived with the ambulance, and I saw them approach Cassie. One of them, a woman with her hair pulled back in a tight bun, took out a notepad.
« Madam, we need to ask you a few questions regarding this incident. »
Cassie’s face was a mask of barely contained panic.
« It was an accident, » she said. « I was just trying to help her sit down for the photo. She’s my sister. I would never… »
« I saw what happened. »
The voice came from an elderly man in a grey suit, whom I vaguely recognized as one of Greg’s associates. He stepped forward, his face grave.
« I was less than two meters away, » he said in a clear, firm voice. « My name is Lucas Chambers. I clearly saw her »—he nodded toward Cassie— »grab her sister with both hands and pull violently, intentionally. It wasn’t an accident or a clumsy move. She deliberately knocked that girl down. It’s assault. »
The testimony of this independent witness constituted irrefutable proof. An impartial observer, a respected businessman, with no reason to lie and every reason to stay out of family conflicts, his words were imbued with truth.
The policewoman’s face hardened. She approached Cassie.
« Madam, given the witness’s testimony and the victim’s injuries, you must accompany us to the station to be questioned regarding an assault charge. »
« What? No! » Cassie yelled, backing away. « You can’t take me. It’s my engagement party. Leave me alone! »
She brushed the officer’s hand away with a backhand, now hysterical, her sense of entitlement overriding any instinct for survival.
« Greg, tell them to stop! »
« Madam, stop resisting, » ordered the officer.
When Cassie tried to turn around and run towards the house, the police officers intervened instantly. They grabbed her arms and spun her around.
The handcuffs locked and Cassie began to cry. Not delicate tears that could be wiped away with a handkerchief, but hideous, hissing sobs that made her mascara run in black rivers down her face.
Her magnificent pastel dress, the one that had cost $5,000, was now stained with wine and blood, and irreparably damaged.
As the police led her to the patrol car, she kept turning back to Greg, to our parents, to anyone who might be able to intervene. But the crowd parted like the Red Sea, each person retreating to avoid being associated with her fall.
Most importantly, Greg remained silent. He didn’t defend her. He didn’t argue with the police, didn’t proclaim her innocence, and didn’t beg them to let her go.
He and his family turned their backs on Cassie.
It was at that moment that I experienced my first emotional release.
She was no longer untouchable.
For 24 months, Cassie was protected by the family narrative. By her parents’ insistence that we « keep the peace. » By their willingness to sacrifice my truth for her comfort. By their unconditional support of her narcissism and their imposition of silence.
But that… that was public. There were witnesses. It was documented.
It was finally, finally real.
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