Officer Davis did not soften it.

“Yes.”

I stared at the ceiling.

Fallon had aimed for my eyes.

And smiled for the camera while doing it.

Officer Davis asked whether Fallon had threatened me before.

Then he asked something more important.

“Was there a financial motive?”

I turned toward him.

“What?”

“Your sister filmed the incident.”

That was when the numbers started arranging themselves in my head.

Fallon monetized conflict.

She monetized breakups.

Vacations.

Arguments.

Shopping.

Family dinners.

Why would my assault be different?

“Greer,” I said.

She looked up from the plastic chair.

“Bring me my laptop tomorrow.”

I got home around three in the morning.

When I woke up, my face was wrapped in sterile gauze.

My phone had hundreds of notifications.

A cousin I had not spoken to in three years had written:

I can’t believe you tried to ruin Fallon’s wedding.

Another message said:

Why did you attack your own mother?

I opened the link everyone was sending.

Fallon’s video had already crossed one million views.

The thumbnail showed Fallon in her wedding dress crying on one side.

On the other side was a blurry frame of me shoving Sibil away.

The title implied I had destroyed my sister’s wedding out of jealousy.

I pressed play.

Fallon had cut out everything.

No glass.

No chemical.

No assault.

The video started with me pushing our mother.

My scream had been muted and replaced with piano music.

Then Fallon appeared on camera wearing an oversized sweater.

Soft lighting.

Minimal makeup.

Professional victim mode.

“I’ve always loved my sister,” she said.

“Even when she struggles to be happy for me.”

I laughed once.

It hurt my cheek.

Fallon continued.

“Some people are deeply broken inside.”

Thousands of strangers agreed.

They called me jealous.

Unstable.

Bitter.

Aging.

Someone posted the name of my employer.

Then Richard, my managing director, called.

“Sloan, HR received more than forty emails this morning.”

“Richard, I was assaulted.”

“I understand.”

“No.

You clearly don’t.”

There was a pause.

“The firm is placing you on paid administrative leave pending review.”

I sat upright.

“You’re suspending the victim?”

“We manage billions in client risk.

We can’t have senior employees appearing in viral violent incidents.”

“That sentence should embarrass you.”

He exhaled.

“Send HR the police report.”

Then he delivered the part that actually cost money.

I was being removed from the Reynolds merger account.

My twenty-thousand-dollar performance bonus would be reassigned.

After the call ended, I went into my home office.

I opened Excel.

Not Instagram.

Not Facebook.

Excel.

I created a spreadsheet called:

LIABILITY_ASSESSMENT_WARD.

Column A: Evidence Required.

Column B: Financial Damages.

Column C: Liable Parties.

First line:

Lost Reynolds bonus — $20,000.

Then emergency-room costs.

Dermatology.

Scar treatment.

The ruined dress.

Lost wages.

Future legal fees.

The doorbell rang.

Greer kam herein und trug zwei große Kaffeebecher und einen gelben Notizblock.

„Die Polizei hat das Rohmaterial des Kamerateams beschlagnahmt.“

“Gut.”

„Da ist noch mehr.“

Sie setzte sich.

„Fallons Assistentin hat mich angerufen.“

Sutton war zweiundzwanzig Jahre alt.

Überarbeitet.

Unterbezahlt.

Und laut Greer weinte sie so heftig, dass sie kaum sprechen konnte.

„Was hat sie gesagt?“

Greer legte ihr Handy auf meinen Schreibtisch.

„Sie sagte, Fallon habe das Geschehene nicht improvisiert.“

Ich hörte auf zu tippen.

Greers Gesichtsausdruck veränderte sich.

„Sie hat es geplant.“

Dann klingelte ihr Telefon erneut.

Suttons Name erschien auf dem Bildschirm.

Und bevor Greer antworten konnte, erschien darunter ein Text.

ICH HABE DAS DREHBUCH.