The wedding had been unfolding beautifully for nearly an hour, guests seated comfortably beneath the elaborate floral arch Priscilla had spent months designing, string lights woven delicately through the surrounding trellises. Everything about the ceremony had proceeded exactly according to her meticulous planning, right up until an elderly woman wandered quietly near the edge of the red carpet.
Eleanor Whitmore had arrived at the estate earlier that afternoon, dressed simply in a plain blue sweater, quietly admiring the gardens she had personally cultivated over the past three decades. She had no intention of drawing attention to herself during the ceremony, preferring instead to observe quietly from a respectful distance, curious about the young couple who had rented her family's estate for their celebration.
Priscilla noticed her almost immediately, her irritation flaring instantly at the sight of someone she considered inappropriately dressed wandering near her carefully curated wedding backdrop. "Excuse me," she snapped, crossing the aisle with sharp, aggressive strides, "you need to move away from here immediately."
Eleanor turned, startled by the sudden hostility, attempting to explain her presence calmly. "I'm so sorry, I was just admiring the—" Her explanation was cut short entirely as Priscilla's hand struck sharply across her face, the sound cracking beneath the wedding arch and silencing the surrounding guests instantly.