Chapter 5 - Public Execution
The arrest happened in front of fifty lifestyle journalists and six live cameras.
Fallon had arranged a promotional popup event for a luxury skincare line—ironic beyond measure—at the St. Regis Hotel in Manhattan. She was standing on stage in a white dress, pontificating about "inner beauty and resilience," when Officer Davis and three uniformed NYPD officers walked directly down the center aisle.
The entire thing was broadcast live on Instagram by attendees.
"Fallon Ward-Vane," Davis announced, his voice echoing across the chandelier-lit ballroom. "You are under arrest for felony aggravated battery and conspiracy."
Fallon froze, the microphone shaking in her hand. "What? No! This is a mistake! My lawyer—"
"Hands behind your back, ma'am."
The handcuffs clicked loudly over her wrists. The flashbulbs went crazy. The very cameras she had spent her entire life chasing were now capturing her worst nightmare in crystal-clear definition.
Simultaneously, two officers arrived at my mother’s gated community in Long Island, placing Sibil in handcuffs right in front of her country club neighbors.
By that night, the mugshots were released.
Fallon looked hollow, her glamorous facade completely destroyed. Sibil looked furious, her eyes glaring at the camera like a trapped animal.
The internet narrative flipped overnight.
The leaked audio clips from the wedding were officially released by the prosecutor's office as part of the public indictment filing. Hearing Fallon yell 'Keep filming! Get her face in the light!' while I screamed in agony eradicated any lingering sympathy the public had for her.
The sponsors fled like rats from a sinking ship.
Within 24 hours, every single brand contract Fallon had was canceled. Retailers pulled her line of merchandise. Her social media accounts were suspended for violating platform policies regarding violence and illegal acts.
She lost over 800,000 followers in three days. Her "brand" was completely extinct.
My employer, the corporate insurance firm, called me on Monday morning.
Richard, the managing director who had suspended me, sounded sickeningly sweet.
"Sloan! We’ve been following the news. It’s unbelievable what you’ve been through! We want to formally invite you back to the firm. We’re restoring your position as Senior Actuarial Director, along with a 15% raise and your full $20,000 bonus."
I sat at my desk, looking out at the Manhattan skyline.
"No, Richard," I said smoothly.
"Excuse me?"
"I am resigning, effective immediately," I said. "And you will be receiving a formal letter from my attorney regarding wrongful suspension and reputation damage during an active criminal investigation."
"Sloan, please, let's talk about this—"
"My billable rate as an independent consultant is now $500 an hour," I interrupted. "If your firm requires my actuarial expertise for the Reynolds merger, you can hire my private firm. Otherwise, do not call this number again."
I hung up, feeling a surge of raw, unadulterated power.
Greer entered the office, holding a stack of legal documents.
"The criminal trial date has been set for next month," Greer said. "Fallon’s public defender—since she can no longer afford her private lawyers—is pushing for a plea bargain."
"What are they offering?"
"Three years in state prison for Fallon, probation for Sibil."
May you like
I stood up and walked to the window, looking at my reflection. My skin had healed significantly, though a faint, silvery line remained along my cheekbone—a permanent reminder of the night my sister traded my safety for clout.
"Tell the DA no plea bargains," I said coldly. "I want them on the stand. I want a full jury trial."
