Chapter 8 - Retaliation
Three days into what was supposed to be our peaceful honeymoon in St. Lucia, the internet exploded.
We had tried to disconnect. Owen had locked our personal phones in the villa’s safe, keeping only a single emergency burner phone on the bedside table. For seventy-two hours, we swam in turquoise waters, drank rum punches under palm trees, and tried to wash the toxic residue of the wedding out of our souls.
But toxicity of that magnitude doesn't stay contained.
On Thursday morning, the emergency phone rang. It was Noah, the AV technician from the wedding venue.
"Leah? Owen?" Noah sounded panicked. "Have you guys seen TikTok? Or Instagram?"
Owen put the phone on speaker between our coffee cups on the veranda. "What happened, Noah?"
"Blaire launched a full-scale smear campaign," Noah said, his breath hitching. "She posted a twenty-minute video crying on her kitchen floor. She’s claiming that you, Leah, used an offshore AI company to deepfake her face and voice onto an adult video to frame her because you were jealous of her pregnancy."
I felt my stomach drop. "Is anyone actually believing that?"
"It has four million views in twelve hours," Noah said bluntly. "She has beauty influencers and family-vlogger accounts reposting it with the hashtag #JusticeForBlaire. People are calling your wedding venue demanding they fire me for 'broadcasting non-consensual deepfake pornography.' Leah, my boss is talking about suspending me!"
Owen’s eyes flashed with lethal fury. He picked up the phone. "Noah, breathe. Send me the links right now. And don't talk to anyone. My legal team will handle your venue boss within the hour."
Owen hung up and immediately retrieved our iPads from the villa safe.
Within minutes, the full scope of Blaire’s counterattack was illuminated on our screens.
The video was a masterclass in manipulative theater. Blaire sat on the floor of what appeared to be our parents' living room, wearing an oversized, faded sweatshirt, no makeup, and clutching an ultrasound photo to her chest.
*"I never wanted to make this public,"* Blaire sobbed into the lens, her voice catching with dramatic precision. *"My sister has struggled with mental health and deep-seated jealousy her whole life. When she found out my husband Thomas and I were blessed with a miracle baby after years of infertility, something snapped. She paid an overseas cyber team to superimpose my face onto footage taken from an adult site, and she played it at her own wedding reception to destroy my marriage."*
The comments below the video were a cesspool of collective outrage:
— *Lock that psycho sister up! Ruining a pregnant woman's life!*
— *What kind of monster does this to her own family?! #CancelLeah*
— *Thomas needs to stand by his wife! That video was so obviously AI!*
— *Someone find the sister's employer! She shouldn't have a job!*
My hands trembled as I scrolled through hundreds of death threats, vitriolic messages, and calls to have me publicly blacklisted. Evelyn had even commented from her verified account: *As their mother, it breaks my heart to confirm that Leah has always harbored an unnatural obsession with destroying Blaire. We are seeking legal action.*
"She's completely unhinged," I whispered, the tropical sun suddenly feeling ice-cold against my skin. "She actually thinks she can lie her way out of federal embezzlement and DNA evidence by using social media."
"She’s desperate," Owen said, his fingers flying across his keyboard as he drafted an email to his corporate litigation team in New York. "She knows the criminal charges are being filed today. She’s trying to poison the jury pool and pressure Thomas into dropping the suit by making him look like a gullible fool who abandoned his pregnant wife over internet rumors."
The burner phone rang again. This time it was Thomas’s attorney, Marcus Vance—no relation to Julian, thankfully.
"Owen, Leah," Marcus said without preamble. "I assume you’ve seen the social media circus."
"We’re looking at it right now," Owen said. "What’s the move, Marcus?"
"Julian Vance was arrested forty-five minutes ago at O’Hare International Airport," Marcus announced calmly.
I gasped, gripping Owen’s forearm. "Arrested?"
"Julian had a one-way ticket to Dubai," Marcus explained, a grim satisfaction coloring his voice. "He was carrying two duffel bags containing ninety thousand dollars in cash, cashier's checks, and three encrypted hard drives. The FBI intercepted him at the gate on federal wire fraud and interstate transport of stolen property charges."
"Did he talk?" Owen asked.
"He started singing before the handcuffs were fully clicked," Marcus said. "Julian realized the embezzlement trail led straight back to him, and he wasn't about to spend twenty years in a federal penitentiary for Blaire’s sake. He handed over his personal phone without a fight."
"And what’s on the phone?" I asked, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"Everything," Marcus replied. "Every text message, every WhatsApp audio note, and every photo from their trips over the last fourteen months. Including a text Blaire sent him yesterday morning, asking him if he knew any dark-web hackers who could create a fake AI-certificate to make the Aspen security video look fraudulent."
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A sharp, jagged breath escaped my lips. Blaire hadn't just lied—she had left an undeniable paper trail of her attempt to fabricate a deepfake defense.
"Pack your bags, kids," Marcus said. "The district attorney just issued a warrant for Blaire’s arrest for conspiracy to commit wire fraud. And Thomas has officially requested an expedited court-ordered paternity test."
