My Father Threatened to Cut My Tuition at My Sister's Gothic Wedding — Then I Revealed My $210K Salary and the Expired Estate Contract That Ruined Him
Arthur’s face was a mottled shade of red, a stark contrast to the elegant white tablecloth now ruined with crimson wine. He fumbled with a napkin, trying to blot the stain, his hands trembling. The guests, initially terrified, now exchanged nervous glances, their whispers growing louder.
“A-an old house,” Arthur stammered, attempting a forced laugh that sounded like a strangled crow. “These old estates, they have their… quirks. Drafts, you know. Old pipes.”
No one bought it. The chandelier had swung, the candles had died, and the cold had deliberately targeted him. It was no draft.
He turned to Julian Croft, my sister’s groom, and his parents, Evelyn and Robert Croft, who sat stiffly beside him. Julian’s eyes were wide, his usual confident smirk replaced by a look of bewildered concern. Evelyn Croft, a woman whose entire persona was built on carefully curated appearances, looked utterly scandalized.
“I apologize, Evelyn,” Arthur said, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper meant for their ears alone. “Maeve, you see… she’s always been rather sensitive. Prone to… delusions. The stress of the wedding, perhaps. Hallucinations.”
He gestured vaguely in my direction, trying to frame the supernatural incident as a manifestation of *my* supposed mental instability. He had used this tactic my entire life – any independent thought, any unexpected event, any hint of disobedience, was immediately dismissed as a symptom of my ‘fragile mind.’
Clara, my older sister, chimed in, her voice dripping with venom. Her perfect white lace veil shimmered in the weak light.
“Oh, it’s true, Mother Croft,” Clara said, leaning conspiratorially toward Evelyn. “Maeve always ruins everything. She craves attention. Remember that time she claimed to see specters in the west wing just before Father’s important investor dinner? So pathetic.”
She sneered at me across the table, a cold, calculated cruelty in her eyes. Clara had always reveled in my father’s gaslighting, using it as an opportunity to elevate herself. My humiliation was her entertainment.
A tight knot formed in my stomach. The familiar ache of betrayal, amplified by the public display, was a bitter taste. But this time, it was different. This time, I had a secret weapon, and their words, once capable of crippling me, now felt hollow.
I did not respond to their accusations. I did not dignify their pathetic attempts to deflect from Arthur’s crumbling control. I simply pushed my chair back, the scrape of wood against the marble floor loud in the suddenly quiet room.
“Excuse me,” I said, my voice steady and even, devoid of the tremor Arthur’s had held. “I need some air.”
I walked away from the head table, leaving their confused whispers and angry glares behind. My destination was not the open doors leading outside, nor the quiet guest rooms.
I headed toward the manor’s private archive wing. Down a winding corridor, past tapestries depicting hollow-eyed ancestors, and through a heavy oak door that rarely saw daylight. I needed to speak with Thomas Gable, the family archivist. He was the one person in this house who might know the truth behind its ancient secrets.
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