Chapter 1: The Glass Garden

The wedding of Julianne Moore and Caleb Thorne was designed to be the event of the season in Savannah, Georgia. It was held in the Thorne family’s ancestral glass conservatory, a sprawling Victorian structure filled with rare orchids and humid, perfumed air.

Julianne, twenty-four and glowing with a fragile sort of beauty, looked like a porcelain doll in her Vera Wang gown. She was the golden child, the sweet one, the one who always needed protecting.

Then there was Beatrice.

Beatrice Moore, twenty-eight, stood by the altar as the Maid of Honor. She wore the mandatory blush-pink dress that clashed with her sharp features and dark, intense eyes. She stood tall, her posture rigid, holding Julianne’s bouquet with a grip tight enough to snap the stems.

The guests whispered. Of course they whispered. Everyone in Savannah knew the history. Three years ago, it was Beatrice standing next to Caleb at charity galas. It was Beatrice who had dated Caleb for four years. They were the power couple—fire and ice. And then, abruptly, they ended. Six months later, Caleb was dating Julianne.

“It’s awkward, isn’t it?” Mrs. Gable, a woman with hair like spun sugar and a tongue like a viper, murmured to her neighbor in the third row. “Having the ex-girlfriend standing right there. Sisters or not, it’s unnatural.”

“I heard she insisted on cooking,” the neighbor whispered back. “Can you believe it? The caterers were banned from making the appetizers. Beatrice said it was a ‘family tradition’.”

It was true. The reception tables were laden with high-end catering, except for one silver platter placed prominently at the head table. On it sat delicate, hand-rolled puff pastries filled with brie and fig jam.

Julianne had insisted. “I can’t get married without your fig tarts, Bea,” she had pleaded, her big blue eyes swimming with tears a week ago. “It’s the only thing that calms my stomach.”

Beatrice had agreed. She always agreed when Julianne cried.

Now, as the reception began, the tension in the room was palpable. Caleb looked dashing in his tuxedo, but his eyes kept darting toward Beatrice with a look that was hard to decipher—guilt? Regret? Fear?

Julianne, however, seemed oblivious. She was laughing, clutching Caleb’s arm, her face flushed with excitement.

“I’m so hungry,” Julianne announced, her voice carrying over the jazz band. “I haven’t eaten all day. Bea, pass me a tart.”

The room went quiet. Beatrice picked up the silver platter. She walked over to the bride.

“Just one, Jules,” Beatrice said, her voice low and husky. “Don’t spoil your dinner.”

“Oh, stop being a big sister for one second,” Julianne giggled. She took a tart and popped the whole thing into her mouth. She chewed, closing her eyes in ecstasy. “God, Bea. These are to die for.”

Beatrice didn’t smile. She just watched her sister swallow.

Five minutes later, Julianne was in the middle of a toast.

“I just want to say,” Julianne began, raising her champagne glass, “that I am the luckiest girl in the world. I have the man of my dreams, and I have my sister, who…”

She paused. Her hand trembled. The champagne sloshed over the rim.

“Jules?” Caleb asked, stepping closer.

Julianne blinked. Her face went ashen white. She brought a hand to her throat.

“I…” she gasped. “I feel…”

And then, like a marionette whose strings had been cut, Julianne Moore collapsed.

She hit the marble floor with a sickening thud, her white dress billowing around her like a cloud.

Chapter 2: The Accusation

For a second, there was absolute silence. Then, chaos erupted.

“Julianne!” Caleb screamed, dropping to his knees beside her. He shook her shoulders. “Jules! Wake up!”

She was unresponsive. Her breathing was shallow, her skin clammy and cold.

“Call 911!” someone shouted.

Mrs. Moore, the mother of the bride, rushed forward, screaming. She looked at her unconscious daughter, and then her eyes snapped up. They locked onto Beatrice.

Beatrice hadn’t moved. She was standing frozen, the silver platter still in her hand.

“You!” Mrs. Moore shrieked, pointing a shaking finger at Beatrice. “What did you do?”

The crowd turned. The whispers ignited into a roar.

“She ate the tart,” Mrs. Gable said loudly. “I saw it. She ate the tart and then she dropped.”

“It’s the sister,” another voice joined in. “She’s the ex. She’s jealous.”

Caleb looked up at Beatrice. His face was twisted with panic and confusion. “Bea? What was in those pastries?”

“Nothing!” Beatrice dropped the platter. It clattered loudly, the remaining tarts rolling across the floor like accusations. “Brie, figs, flour, butter. That’s it!”

“She’s allergic to nothing!” Mrs. Moore cried, cradling Julianne’s head. “You poisoned her! You couldn’t stand it, could you? You couldn’t stand seeing him marry her!”

“Mom, no!” Beatrice stepped forward, reaching out. “I would never hurt Jules!”

“Stay back!” Caleb shouted. He put himself between Beatrice and Julianne. The look in his eyes broke Beatrice’s heart more than the breakup ever had. It was pure, unadulterated distrust.

“Check her pulse!” a doctor from the guest list pushed through. He knelt down, checking Julianne’s vitals. “Her pulse is thready. Pupils dilated. We need an ambulance, now!”

“She poisoned her,” the whispers grew louder, surrounding Beatrice like a swarm of bees. “The ex-girlfriend. The jealous sister. It’s like a movie.”

Beatrice stood alone in the center of the room. The guests backed away from her, creating a circle of isolation. She looked at her hands. They were shaking.

She looked at the tarts on the floor. Had she made a mistake? Had the flour been bad? Had she accidentally used something expired? No. She was a professional chef. She was meticulous.

Unless…

She looked at Caleb. Three nights ago, Caleb had come to her house. He was drunk. He had told her he was having cold feet. He had told her he still thought about her. Beatrice had kicked him out. She told him to go home to Julianne. She told him to grow up.

Did he say something to Julianne? Did Julianne know?

The paramedics burst through the doors, shattering Beatrice’s thoughts. They loaded Julianne onto a stretcher.

“I’m coming with her,” Caleb said.

“I’m coming too,” Mrs. Moore sobbed.

Beatrice took a step. “I…”

“You stay here,” Mrs. Moore hissed. “The police are on their way. You stay right here and explain to them why you tried to kill your sister.”

Chapter 3: The Interrogation of Memory

The ambulance wailed into the distance. The party was over. The guests lingered, feeding on the drama, but the police arrived quickly to disperse them and secure the “scene.”

Beatrice sat on a folding chair in the corner of the empty conservatory. A detective was bagging the remaining tarts.

“Ms. Moore,” Detective Miller said, walking over. He was a tired-looking man who clearly didn’t want to be working a wedding on a Saturday. “Let’s go over this again. You prepared the food yourself?”

“Yes,” Beatrice said, her voice hollow.

“Did anyone help you?”

“No.”

“Did you have access to any… chemicals? Medications?”

“I’m a chef, Detective. I have access to saffron and truffle oil. Not arsenic.” Beatrice looked up, her eyes blazing. “I love my sister. I practically raised her. Our dad died when she was five. Mom fell apart. I was the one who made her lunch, who braided her hair. Why would I hurt her?”

“Motive,” Miller said simply. “The groom. You dated him.”

“That was years ago.”

“Three years. And witnesses say he was seen at your apartment two nights ago.”

Beatrice froze. Savannah was too small.

“He came to talk,” Beatrice said. “He was nervous.”

“Did he try to get back together with you?”

Beatrice remained silent.

“Ms. Moore?”

“He… he had doubts,” Beatrice admitted quietly. “He was scared. I told him to go home. I told him he loved Julianne.”

“Maybe you didn’t want him to marry her,” Miller suggested. “Maybe you thought you were saving him. Or her.”

“By poisoning her in front of two hundred people?” Beatrice scoffed. “If I wanted to kill her, I’d do it in a way that didn’t point directly at me.”

Miller raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like something a killer would say.”

Beatrice put her head in her hands. She thought about Julianne. Sweet, naive Julianne.

The truth was, Beatrice had been jealous. When Caleb first started dating Julianne, it felt like a betrayal. But then she saw them together. Caleb wasn’t the intense, brooding man he was with Beatrice. He was lighter. Happier. And Julianne worshipped him.

Beatrice had stepped back. She had swallowed her pride and her pain. She had agreed to be the Maid of Honor. She had agreed to make the damn tarts.

The tarts.

She replayed the cooking process in her mind. The dough. The figs. The cheese.

Wait.

The figs.

Julianne had brought the jar of fig jam herself. “It’s from that little roadside stand we went to last month,” she had said. “The one with the nice old lady.”

Beatrice hadn’t tasted the jam. She had just spooned it in.

“The jam,” Beatrice whispered. “Check the jar. It’s in the kitchen trash.”

“We will,” Miller said. “But right now, we need you to come to the station. Until the hospital gives us a toxicology report, you’re a person of interest.”

Chapter 4: The White Room

Beatrice spent three hours in a holding cell. It wasn’t an arrest, technically, but it felt like one. She sat on the hard bench, her pink bridesmaid dress wrinkled and stained with something that looked like wine.

She didn’t cry. Beatrice Moore didn’t cry. She thought.

She thought about the way Julianne had looked right before she fell. Her hand to her throat. The gasp.

It looked like anaphylaxis. But Julianne had no allergies. Beatrice had cooked for her for twenty years.

Unless she developed a new one? Or…

The door opened. Detective Miller walked in. He looked different. Less suspicious, more… annoyed.

“You can go, Ms. Moore,” he said.

Beatrice stood up instantly. “Is she okay? Is she…?”

“She’s awake,” Miller said. “She’s at St. Joseph’s. And the toxicology screen came back clean.”

Beatrice let out a breath that felt like it cracked her ribs. “Clean? So no poison?”

“No poison. No drugs. No allergic reaction.”

“Then why did she collapse?”

Miller sighed, scratching his head. “The doctors are calling it ‘Syncope induced by extreme stress and hypoglycemia’. Fainting, Ms. Moore. She fainted.”

Beatrice stared at him. “She fainted?”

“Apparently so. And something else. You should go to the hospital. Your family is asking for you.”

Chapter 5: The Weight of a Feather

Beatrice didn’t take a cab. She ran. She ran three blocks to where her car was parked and drove to the hospital in record time.

She burst into Room 304.

Julianne was sitting up in bed, hooked up to an IV drip. She looked pale, but alive. Caleb was sitting in the chair next to the bed, holding her hand. Mrs. Moore was pacing by the window.

When Beatrice entered, the room went silent.

Caleb stood up. He looked ashamed. He couldn’t meet her eyes.

Mrs. Moore stopped pacing. She looked at Beatrice, then at the floor. “Beatrice.”

“You accused me of murder,” Beatrice said, her voice shaking. “In front of everyone.”

“I was panicked!” Mrs. Moore defended herself weakly. “It looked… suspicious.”

“I don’t care what it looked like,” Beatrice said. She walked past her mother and stood at the foot of the bed. “Jules. Are you okay?”

Julianne looked at her sister. Tears welled up in her big blue eyes.

“I’m sorry, Bea,” Julianne whispered. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Why did you faint, Jules?” Beatrice asked softly. “The doctor said stress.”

Julianne looked at Caleb. Caleb squeezed her hand.

“I haven’t eaten in three days,” Julianne admitted. “I wanted to fit into the dress perfectly. I was starving myself.”

Beatrice closed her eyes. “Oh, Jules.”

“But it wasn’t just the food,” Julianne continued. “I was… terrified.”

“Of getting married?”

“No,” Julianne shook her head. “Of you.”

Beatrice frowned. “Me?”

“I knew,” Julianne said. “I knew Caleb went to see you. I saw his texts. I knew he was having doubts. And today… when I stood up there… I looked at you. You looked so strong. So beautiful. And everyone was whispering. I felt like a fraud. I felt like I was stealing him from you.”

Julianne began to sob. “I thought, if I marry him, I lose my sister. Because how could you ever forgive me? And then I ate the tart, and I was so anxious, and my heart started racing, and the room just spun…”

“She had a panic attack,” Caleb said quietly. “Combined with low blood sugar. Her body just shut down.”

Beatrice looked at the three of them.

The perfect couple who wasn’t perfect. The mother who was quick to blame the ‘black sheep’. And Julianne, who was so afraid of not being enough that she starved herself into a collapse.

Beatrice walked to the side of the bed. She took Julianne’s hand.

“You idiot,” Beatrice said, but her voice was gentle. “You didn’t steal him. We broke up. It was over.”

“But he still loves you,” Julianne whispered.

Beatrice looked at Caleb. He was watching her.

“He loves you, Jules,” Beatrice said firmly. “He came to see me because he was scared. Marriage is scary. He wanted reassurance. And do you know what I told him? I told him that you are the best thing that ever happened to him. Because you are kind, and you are soft, and you make him laugh. I made him intense. You make him happy.”

Caleb’s eyes watered. He nodded. “She’s right, Jules. I panicked. But standing here, watching you in that ambulance… I knew. It’s you. It’s always been you since the day we met.”

Julianne looked between them. “Really?”

“Really,” Beatrice said. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a squashed, napkin-wrapped object. It was one of the fig tarts she had salvaged from the chaos.

“Here,” Beatrice said. “Eat this. For real this time.”

Julianne laughed through her tears. She took the tart and took a bite. “It’s smashed.”

“It’s seasoned with drama,” Beatrice said.

Chapter 6: The Real Toast

They didn’t go back to the reception. The party was ruined anyway.

Instead, an hour later, they were all sitting in the hospital room eating vending machine snacks and the leftover fig tarts.

Mrs. Moore had apologized—stiffly, but sincerely. Caleb had hugged Beatrice and whispered a “Thank you” that carried the weight of closure.

Beatrice sat by the window, looking out at the Savannah skyline.

She realized something. She had been holding her breath for three years. She had been holding onto the identity of the “wronged woman,” the “stronger sister,” the “one who got away.”

Today, seeing the fear in Caleb’s eyes—fear for Julianne, not for her—had finally broken that illusion. He wasn’t hers. He hadn’t been hers for a long time.

And that was okay.

Julianne was sleeping now, the sedative finally kicking in. Caleb was asleep in the chair, his hand still holding hers.

Beatrice stood up. She smoothed down her pink dress. She walked to the door.

“Where are you going?” Mrs. Moore asked from the corner.

“I’m going to get a burger,” Beatrice said. “A real one. With grease and onions.”

“Bring me one?” Mrs. Moore asked.

Beatrice smiled. It was the first genuine smile she had worn all day. “Okay, Mom.”

She walked out of the hospital room, leaving the married couple to their dreams. She walked out into the cool night air.

The wedding was a disaster. The gossip would last for years. But as Beatrice walked down the street, she felt lighter than she had in a decade. The unspoken vow had finally been made, not between bride and groom, but between sisters.

I release you. Be happy.

Beatrice took a deep breath of the humid air. She was hungry. And for the first time, she was ready to eat something she hadn’t cooked herself.

The End.