My Sister Demanded to Walk First at My Wedding, I Let Her – Just Not the Way She Expected

She said.

“I exposed him two years ago. He’s supposed to be in jail.”

She showed us her old investigation; he’d been released early and was operating under a slightly different name. My phone buzzed, an unknown number. I almost ignored it, but Patricia gestured for me to answer and put it on speaker.

“This is Officer Davis. We have a warrant for your arrest. Your sister is in critical condition and evidence suggests you administered something to trigger her reaction.”

Patricia grabbed the phone.

“This is Patricia Kim, Channel 6 News. I’m sitting with your suspect right now looking at evidence of an extensive fraud scheme. You might want to reconsider your approach.”

Silence. Then:

“Ma’am, we have a signed complaint and a judge’s warrant based on—”

“Falsified medical records from a convicted fraudster,”

Patricia shot back.

“I’m going live in 20 minutes. Your choice how this plays out.”

She hung up and turned to her computer.

“We’re doing this now. Monica, are you ready to go on camera?”

Monica nodded, though her hands shook. Patricia’s team set up with lightning speed. Within minutes we were in the studio.

Patricia didn’t waste time with pleasantries.

“Tonight, a Channel 6 investigation reveals a shocking fraud scheme involving fake cancer diagnoses, forged medical records, and a family torn apart by lies.”

The evidence appeared on screen: Jessica’s planning documents, the fake prescriptions, the GoFundMe page. Monica spoke clearly about how Jessica had studied real cancer patients to perfect her performance. My phone exploded with notifications; the live stream viewer count climbed rapidly.

Patricia’s team had prepared graphics showing the money trail, the disgraced doctors, the timeline of lies.

“We’re now going to the hospital where Jessica is currently being treated,”

Patricia announced.

“Not for cancer, but for an allergic reaction caused by illegally obtained chemotherapy substances.”

The broadcast cut to a reporter outside the hospital. Behind him, chaos erupted: my parents were being escorted out by security. Mom was screaming about lawsuits and lies; Dad looked stunned, like he’d aged 10 years in 10 minutes.

Patricia’s phone rang; she listened, then smiled grimly.

“The police are reconsidering their warrant. Apparently, the judge who signed it is Dr. Morrison’s golf buddy.”

More breaking news: the GoFundMe had been frozen; $30,000 in donations locked pending investigation. The comment section had turned into a battlefield as Jessica’s supporters watched their narrative crumble. Alec’s phone rang; his father’s voice was shaky with relief.

“The hospital board called an emergency meeting. They’re reviewing my suspension. The administrator saw the broadcast.”

Through the studio windows we could see police cars arriving—not for us this time. Patricia’s investigation had triggered something bigger. Officers entered with federal badges; the fraud had crossed state lines with online prescription sales.

Monica’s phone buzzed with texts from the other cancer patients Jessica had studied. They were ready to speak up; the real support group was mobilizing, not as Jessica’s army, but as witnesses to her deception. Patricia received a call during commercial break; her expression changed.

“Jessica’s asking for you again. She says she’ll confess everything on camera if you’ll come.”

We rushed back to the hospital, now surrounded by news vans. The ICU was locked down, but Patricia’s presence got us through. Jessica was conscious, her swelling reduced; she looked at me with exhausted eyes and nodded.

The cameras rolled. Jessica’s confession was halting but complete: the fake diagnosis, the studied symptoms, the plan to fake her death and frame me. She named every disgraced doctor, every enabler, every scheme.

When she finished, she looked directly at me.

“I’m sorry,”

She said aloud this time, her voice.

“I wanted to be special, to be the center of attention. I didn’t care who I hurt.”

The federal agents took her statement: charges would be filed—fraud, theft, conspiracy. My parents, watching from the hallway, looked broken; the life they’d built around Jessica’s lies had collapsed in hours. As we left the hospital, the sunrise painted the sky pink.

The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving bone-deep exhaustion. Alec held my hand as we walked past the news vans, past the gawkers with their phones, past the remnants of Jessica’s carefully constructed victim narrative. Patricia’s final broadcast that morning showed the aftermath: Jessica under arrest, guard in her hospital bed; Dr. Morrison in handcuffs; the GoFundMe donors being notified of the fraud; my parents leaving their house with boxes, the yellow ribbons already being taken down by neighbors.

Six months later, I sat in a small apartment across town, watching Jessica’s sentencing on my laptop. Three years for fraud, two suspended; she’d serve 18 months.