Her sister threw an industrial chemical peel into her face for viral fame, but when the video went viral, a leaked group chat proved her own mother helped buy the acid.

I stared at Greer’s phone screen. The text messages were clear, timestamped, and agonizingly deliberate.

Fallon: "If Sloan looks crazy at the wedding, the engagement on the vlog will double. We need something that leaves a mark so she reacts."

Sibil: "I ordered the peel from the spa account. Make sure the cameras catch her pushing back."

My own mother had facilitated the chemical attack on her eldest daughter for social media metrics. My heart hardened into cold, mathematical steel.

"Did you save these screenshots?" I asked Greer, my voice steady despite the searing pain under my bandages.

"I saved everything," Greer replied. "Sutton—Fallon’s assistant—is terrified. Fallon hasn't paid her in three months, and when Sutton saw what happened to your face, she knew she couldn't stay quiet anymore."

"Good," I said, opening a fresh tab in my spreadsheet. Column D: Co-Conspirators. Column E: Criminal Intent.

The phone rang. It was Officer Davis.

"Ms. Ward, we reviewed the venue's security footage that we subpoenaed," Davis said. "It confirms your statement. The raw video clearly shows your sister throwing the liquid and your mother physically attempting to scrub your face while you were in visible distress."

"Are you issuing a warrant?" I asked.

"We attempted to," Davis admitted, hesitation in his voice. "However, your sister’s defense attorney just submitted an affidavit signed by your mother claiming the chemical peel was an accidental mix-up with a pink cocktail mixer, and that you initiated physical violence first."

"They're framing it as an domestic accident and mutual combat," I stated flatly.

"Precisely. Without hard proof that she knew what was in that glass before throwing it, the District Attorney is hesitant to push aggravated assault charges immediately. They might reduce it to a misdemeanor."

A misdemeanor. For burning off the left side of my face.

"Give me forty-eight hours," I told Davis. "I’ll give the DA undeniable proof of premeditation."

After hanging up, I looked at Greer. "We need Fallon’s financial records. She claims she’s a successful influencer, but she’s drowning in $50,000 of debt. I know how she operates—she uses fraudulent shell accounts to handle sponsorships."

Greer grinned wickedly. "You forget I work in corporate forensic accounting at the firm. I can pull public corporate filings for her 'brand' entity in less than an hour."

While Greer worked, I called my dermatologist. Dr. Vance reviewed the ER records over a secure portal.

"Sloan, you have second-degree chemical burns across your cheek and jaw," Dr. Vance explained. "With immediate laser treatment and skin grafting, we can minimize the permanent scarring, but the medical bills will easily exceed $80,000 over the next year."

"Add it to the balance sheet," I muttered to myself.

By 3:00 PM, Greer dropped a folder onto my desk. "Fallon registered 'Fallon Ward LLC' two years ago. She’s been falsifying her follower engagement metrics to secure high-paying sponsor contracts. That’s federal wire fraud, Sloan."

"Even better," I said. "Look at the transaction history from two weeks ago."

There it was: a $450 charge from Sibil’s credit card transferred directly to Fallon’s LLC account, labeled 'Event Prop Preparation'. On the exact same day, Fallon made a purchase at a commercial medical aesthetics supplier in New Jersey.

They didn't just plan it—they ran it through their business ledger as a tax-deductible expense.

My phone chimed with a notification. Fallon had just gone live on Instagram.

I clicked the link. Fallon was sitting in her sunlit living room, holding a tissue, weeping softly while Miles rubbed her back.

"I just want to address the rumors," Fallon sobbed into the camera. "My sister Sloan has always struggled with jealousy regarding my success. At my wedding, she had a breakdown and attacked my sweet mother. We are praying for her mental health, but we have had to file a restraining order for our safety."

The live comments poured in: 'Sloan is a psycho!', 'Cancel Sloan Ward!', 'Lock her up!'

Then, my mother joined the video, looking solemnly into the lens. "As a mother, it breaks my heart. But Sloan needs serious help before she hurts someone else."

I felt no rage. Only absolute, clinical clarity. They had built a mountain of lies, and I was going to use the law of gravity to bring it down on their heads.

I dialed the lead attorney at Manhattan’s top civil litigation firm—a firm my corporate employer kept on retainer.

"Mr. Vance? My name is Sloan Ward. I want to file a $5 million civil lawsuit for intentional infliction of emotional distress, battery, defamation, and tortious interference with employment."

"That’s a heavy lawsuit against family, Ms. Ward," Vance noted. "Do you have the stomach for a public war?"