Chapter 6 - THE AUDIT UNRAVELS
For the next two weeks, the scandal dominated digital news cycles, legal blogs, and local television.
The headline on the New York Post cover page said it all: BARBED BRIDE: INFLUENCER ARRESTED IN WEDDING TIARA ATTACK ON SISTER.
Delaney was released on $250,000 bail, but her empire dissolved overnight.
Every sponsor—from major skincare lines to national fashion retailers—terminated their contracts within forty-eight hours, invoking moral turpitude clauses. Her agency dropped her. Her YouTube channel was demonetized. Her husband, Hayes, packed his bags and moved into an apartment in Manhattan, filing for an annulment three days later.
Meanwhile, June sat in Sarah Klein’s office, surrounded by accountants, watching her financial life be pieced back together.
"The good news," Sarah declared, sliding a thick blue folder across the table, "is that because Delaney used the trust funds to purchase real estate—specifically her Westchester home—we filed an immediate constructive trust lien on the property."
June looked up, her young face tired but hopeful. "What does that mean?"
"It means Delaney doesn't own that house," Sarah explained with a warm smile. "You do. The court has ordered the immediate sale of the property. Once it sells, every dollar from the equity—approximately $1.2 million—goes straight back into a newly secured, court-monitored trust for your education and living expenses."
June let out a ragged breath, leaning her head against my shoulder. "I don't care about the mansion, Aunt Sloan. I just wanted to go to college without feeling like I owed them my soul."
"You don't owe them anything, June bug," I whispered, kissing the top of her head.
My phone rang. It was my clinical director, Dr. Aris.
"Sloan," Dr. Aris said, her tone entirely different from our last conversation. "I watched the news filings. I saw the video. We are lifting your administrative leave immediately."
I paused, leaning against the window overlooking Boston Harbor. "And the parents who complained?"
"They called back to apologize," Dr. Aris said gently. "We want you back in the clinic whenever you're ready. In fact, the board wants to expand your workshop on family trauma and recovery."
"Thank you, Dr. Aris," I said. "I'll be back on Monday."
I hung up, feeling a weight lift off my chest that I hadn't realized I was carrying. My career wasn't over. My reputation wasn't destroyed.
The truth had held the line.
But my parents weren't done trying to pull me back into the swamp.
That evening, I received a text message from my father:
Sloan, please come to the house. Your mother and I need to talk to you about the civil lawsuit. We are facing bankruptcy.
I stared at the screen for a long moment, then passed the phone to Bellamy.
"Are you going?" Bellamy asked.
May you like
I looked at June, who was sitting at my kitchen table drawing in a sketchbook, relaxed and safe for the first time in years.
"Yes," I said. "One last time. To close the book."
