Chapter 2 - The Deposition of Silence
Two weeks later, the conference room on the fourteenth floor of Nora Vance’s downtown office building smelled of leather, fresh printer toner, and cold coffee.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, rain slicked the grey skyline of the city. Inside, the atmosphere was suffocatingly tense.
Sitting across the long oak table was my mother, Laurelai, my father, Thatcher, and Delaney, flanked by her lead defense attorney, a sleek, expensive man named Gregory Vance (no relation to Nora) who specialized in protecting digital influencers and media personalities from high-profile scandals.
Delaney wore an oversized cream sweater, minimal makeup, and a delicate gold cross necklace—a carefully curated outfit designed to project innocence and vulnerability. My mother sat beside her, clutching Delaney’s hand and casting cold, furious glares across the table at me.
My father sat slightly back from the table, his arms folded tightly across his chest, staring at his reflection in the dark wood.
“This is an absolute farce, Nora,” Gregory Vance began, tapping a sleek tablet on the table. “My client made a harmless, albeit unfortunate, mistake during a high-stress celebratory event. The video uploaded to her public channels was a standard edit intended to protect her personal brand from the violent outburst displayed by your client.”
Nora didn't flinch. She sat with her hands calmly resting over a thick, black leather-bound binder.
“Mr. Vance,” Nora replied, her voice smooth and devoid of heat. “Your client didn't make a mistake. She executed a staged assault designed to generate commercial engagement for her media enterprise, Delaney Media LLC, specifically to satisfy a content clause in her preliminary development agreement with Apex Streaming Networks.”
Delaney’s hand twitched inside her mother’s grip. Her eyes flicked briefly toward her attorney.
“That is pure speculation and defamatory slander,” Gregory Vance snapped. “Sloan’s reaction at the reception was wildly disproportionate to a simple scratch from a hair accessory. She shoved a bride on her wedding day. She ruined an event that cost over eighty thousand dollars.”
“Let’s discuss the 'hair accessory,'” Nora said quietly.
She reached into her briefcase, pulled out a certified, tamper-evident evidence pouch, and laid it gently in the middle of the table. Inside were the three silver-painted fragments of barbed wire, accompanied by the official chain-of-custody documentation from St. Jude’s Emergency Room and the forensic lab report.
“On October 14th,” Nora stated into the deposition recorder, “Dr. K. Aris extracted these three pieces of modified three-gauge galvanized steel barbed wire from my client’s scalp. They were secured with industrial epoxy inside the recessed base of the tiara provided by your client.”
My mother let out a sharp, dramatic scoff. “Oh, please! Sloan probably picked those up in her garden after she left the hotel! She’s always been dramatic! She couldn't stand seeing Delaney get married while she’s still single at thirty-eight!”
“Mom,” I said.
My voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the room like a razor. It was the first word I had spoken since entering the room.
Laurelai turned her glaring eyes onto me. “Don't you 'Mom' me, Sloan! Look at what you’re doing to this family! Delaney’s sponsors are threatening to freeze her accounts because of the legal notices your lawyer sent! You’re ruining your sister’s life over a scratch!”
I looked at my mother—really looked at her. I saw the desperate, clawing need to protect the illusion of her perfect family, the refusal to acknowledge the monster she had cultivated in Delaney, and the complete absence of love or concern for the child who had sat in an ER bleeding from her head.
The old pain—the hollow, aching need for her to say “I’m sorry, are you okay?”—simply vanished. It was replaced by a clean, crystalline silence.
“I bled on the floor of that conservatory, Mom,” I said softly, my eyes locking onto hers. “You checked the camera light before you looked at my face. You didn't ask if I was okay then, and you haven't asked once in sixteen days.”
Laurelai’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. She looked at Thatcher, expecting him to join her, but my father kept his eyes firmly fixed on the table, refusing to speak.
Nora pulled three sheets of paper from her binder and slid them across the table toward Gregory Vance.
“These are subpoena orders,” Nora announced flatly. “We have subpoenaed the raw, unedited camera feeds from all six operators present at the venue, the internal communications of Delaney Media LLC, the text logs of maid of honor Marin Hastings between October 10th and October 15th, and the purchase records from the hardware store in Westlake where your assistant purchased three-gauge barbed wire and silver enamel spray paint on October 12th.”
Delaney went completely pale. The delicate, fragile mask slipped for half a second, revealing a flash of absolute, cold terror.
“We are offering one opportunity for a pre-trial resolution,” Nora continued, leaning forward. “Item one: A full, unedited public retraction and apology posted across all of Delaney’s media channels, explaining the true nature of the modified tiara and clearing Sloan’s professional name. Item two: Financial restitution for lost income, legal fees, and medical expenses totaling sixty-four thousand dollars. Item three: A permanent, legally binding civil protection order prohibiting Delaney or her representatives from contacting or posting about Sloan.”
Gregory Vance stared at the subpoena orders. He closed his tablet, turned his head, and looked at Delaney with a grave, severe expression.
“We need five minutes alone,” Gregory Vance told his client.
“No!” Delaney shrieked, her voice dropping its soft, tragic tone, turning sharp and shrill. “I’m not apologizing to her! I’m not posting a retraction! It will destroy my network deal! My followers will eat me alive!”
“Delaney, shut up,” her attorney whispered sharply, gripping her arm. “We are discussing criminal felony assault and evidence tampering now. You need to listen to me.”
My mother jumped up from her chair. “Nora, this is insane! They’re sisters! Families don't do this to each other!”
I stood up slowly, picked up my handbag, and smoothed the lapel of my trench coat.
May you like
“Families don't put barbed wire in tiaras, Mom,” I said smoothly. “You have forty-eight hours to accept the terms. After that, we file the criminal complaint with the District Attorney.”
I turned and walked out of the conference room, leaving my family sitting in the grey light of their own ruined lies.
