I closed the laptop.
Then opened it again.
My entire profession was built around a simple principle:
You cannot price a risk you refuse to examine.
So I examined it.
The public narrative was damaging my employment, my professional reputation, and potentially my future earning capacity.
Silence was no longer neutral.
But responding emotionally would let Fallon turn the conflict into competing performances.
I needed evidence.
Not tears.
Not a ring light.
Not my face.
Evidence.
The first real break came from Miles.
He called me the following morning.
I almost did not answer.
Before the wedding, I had met him seven times.
He was polite, handsome in the generic way expensive haircuts can make a person handsome, and perpetually looked like he was waiting for Fallon to finish filming.
I had never disliked him.
I had simply never understood why he agreed to marry a camera.
“Sloan,” he said when I answered.
“Can we meet?”
“About?”
“Fallon.”
“No.”
He went silent.
Then he said, “I didn’t know.”
That got my attention.
“Know what?”
“The chemical.”
I leaned against the kitchen counter.
“What did you think she was doing?”
“A prank.”
“What kind?”
“She said she was going to throw some skin treatment at you because you were always judging her beauty routines.”
I closed my eyes.
“So you knew she planned to throw something.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
“I thought it was basically colored water.”
“You watched her humiliate people for content for three years.”
“I know.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“I know.”
He sounded tired.
Not devastated.
Tired.
“What do you want from me?”
“There are things on our shared drive.”
I said nothing.
“Contracts.
Planning docs.
Messages with Sibil.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“Why are you telling me?”
“Because Fallon told detectives I planned the prank.”
There it was.
Self-preservation.
Finally, something I trusted.
“She blamed you.”
“She said the product was mine.”
“Was it?”
“No.”
“Then give the police the files.”
“I already gave them access.”
I looked toward my office.
“Anything relevant to the public campaign against me?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“A lot.”
He swallowed.
“Sloan, the wedding video wasn’t the plan.”
My heart slowed.
“What was?”
“She expected you to react harder.”
“How?”
“She thought you’d scream at Fallon.
Maybe slap her.”
“Why?”
“Because then she was going to turn it into a series.”
I did not speak.
Miles continued reluctantly.
“Part one was supposed to be the wedding confrontation.”
“What was part two?”
“Family chooses sides.”
Of course.
“And part three?”
“Fallon cuts toxic sister out of her life.”
A chill moved through me.
Not because the plan was brilliant.
Because it was so ordinary to her.
She had designed a multi-episode content arc around provoking me into humiliation.
My face had been a production asset.
My family had been cast.
I said, “Was the corrosive chemical always part of it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Find out.”
“I’m trying.”
“No, Miles.
You’re trying to avoid being charged.”
He did not deny it.
That made him useful.
I met him the next afternoon in Naomi’s office.
Miles looked terrible.
His wedding ring was gone.
Apparently Fallon had already removed him from several honeymoon posts before her arrest because engagement numbers had dropped.
He placed his phone and laptop on the table.
Naomi stopped him.
“Before you show us anything, have you provided these materials to law enforcement?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She did not want us accused of altering evidence or interfering with the investigation.
Miles opened a folder titled FW WEDDING MASTER.
There were budget sheets.
Brand integrations.
Vendor agreements.
Sponsor deliverables.
Shot lists.
Fallon had turned her wedding into a commercial project with extraordinary thoroughness.
The ceremony itself occupied less planning space than the social-media launch.
Then Miles opened a spreadsheet labeled POST-WEDDING CONTENT PIPELINE.
My name appeared in seven rows.
I stared.
“Seven?”
Miles nodded.
The first was the confrontation.
The next two were reaction videos.
Then a story titled Why My Sister Has Always Hated Me.
Then another called Setting Boundaries With Toxic Family.
Then My Mom Finally Speaks Out.
Then, two weeks later:
SLOAN APOLOGY?
I laughed.
Naomi looked at me.
“What?”
“She scheduled my apology.”
Miles looked down.
The cell beside the proposed video included expected views.
1.4 to 2.2 million.
Projected ad revenue.
Projected affiliate conversion.
Sponsor integration possibilities.
Fallon had modeled the financial value of my emotional collapse.
Poorly.
But she had modeled it.
I knew exactly what I was looking at.
A forecast.
Naomi’s voice became very quiet.
“Save a forensic copy.”
Miles nodded.
Then he opened a text thread between Fallon and Sibil.
Most of it was mundane wedding panic.
Flowers.
Dress fittings.
Guest seating.
Then we reached the day before the wedding.
Fallon: Need Sloan near the floor when segment starts.
Sibil: I’ll make sure she stays.
Fallon: She’ll try to leave early.
Sibil: Then I’ll stall her.
Fallon: When I splash her, step in fast.
Need the mom-protecting-bride angle.
Sibil: How messy is this going to be?
I’m in silver.
Fallon: LOL
Then, twenty minutes later:
Sibil: Is that peel safe?
Fallon: It’s fine.
Med spas use it all the time.
Sibil: On faces?
Fallon: Exactly.
I stopped breathing.
Naomi scrolled slowly.
Sibil: Then why does the box have hazard labels?
There was no immediate response.
Seven minutes later:
Fallon: Because everything in this country has hazard labels.
Don’t start.
Sibil: Dilute it.
Fallon: Obviously.
The next message came from Sibil.
I mean it.
Don’t use it straight.
And Fallon replied:
Relax, Mom.
I know what I’m doing.
No further discussion.
I stared at those messages until the words blurred.
My mother had known.
Not necessarily that Fallon would use the peel undiluted.
But she had known there was a dangerous chemical.
She had seen the warning label.
She had still helped position me for the shot.
Then, after watching my skin react, she had not called for water.
She had grabbed a dry napkin because the camera was filming.
