Chapter 7 - The Confrontation Behind Bars
Forty-eight hours after the arrest, the swelling on my face had begun to subside, leaving behind a tight, angry red welt along my left cheek and jawline where the trichloroacetic acid had burned through the top layers of skin. The doctors assured me that with proper dermatological care and specialized healing creams, the scarring would fade significantly over the next year.
But the emotional armor I wore was completely impenetrable.
At my request, Officer Davis arranged a secure, private visitation booth at the county detention facility. I didn't wear hospital scrubs or bandages; I dressed in a sharp, dark charcoal blazer and slacks, wearing my hair pulled back into a severe, polished chignon. Maya accompanied me, standing quietly by the door of the secure glass partition.
The heavy steel door on the other side of the glass clicked open.
Fallon walked in, flanked by a female corrections officer. The designer hoodie and immaculate makeup were gone. She wore a standard-issue orange jumpsuit, her hair unwashed and tangled around her shoulders, her eyes red and swollen from days of hysterical crying.
When she sat down on the metal stool on the other side of the glass and looked up, her gaze locked onto mine. For a split second, I saw a flicker of the old arrogant defiance—the predatory smirk she used to wear when we were kids.
Then she looked at my bandaged, hardened face, and the illusion completely shattered.
She lifted the heavy telephone receiver with a shaking hand. I slowly picked up mine, pressing it against my ear.
"Sloan..." Fallon’s voice crackled through the small speaker, weak, cracked, and desperate. "Sloan, please. You have to drop the charges. You have to tell the judge it was just a stupid accident, a prank gone wrong. They’re talking about a ten-year mandatory minimum for chemical assault. I’ll go to prison, Sloan! My life is over!"
I stared at her through the thick, reinforced glass, my expression entirely neutral.
"Your life isn't over, Fallon," I said quietly, my voice steady and cold. "You’re just finally experiencing the real-world consequences of your actions. For your entire life, you operated under the delusion that your social media following, your pretty face, and our mother’s enabling protection gave you absolute immunity from reality."
"We're family!" Fallon sobbed, hot tears streaming down her hollow cheeks. "How can you do this to your own sister over a stupid wedding joke?"
"A joke," I repeated, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. "You poured industrial-grade acid into my face on live television in front of two hundred people because you couldn't stand the thought of sharing the spotlight for a single afternoon. You didn't just try to humiliate me; you permanently scarred my skin and risked blinding me."
Fallon pressed her hands against the glass, shaking her head frantically. "Mom made the purchase! Mom told me to do it! She said it would generate millions of views and make our brand go global! It was her idea!"
"And Sibil is sitting in cell block B three doors down, facing the exact same criminal charges for embezzlement and conspiracy," I replied calmly. "You two made a brilliant team. Too bad your risk management assessment was so fundamentally flawed."
Fallon slumped against the partition, her shoulders shaking with pathetic, ragged sobs. "Please... what do you want from me, Sloan? Do you want all my clothes? My apartment? My accounts? They're already gone! You took everything!"
"I didn't take anything, Fallon," I said softly, standing up from my stool and adjusting the lapel of my blazer. "The market simply corrected an overvalued, toxic asset."
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I placed my receiver back on its cradle with a quiet, definitive click.
As I turned and walked out of the visitation room, leaving my sister sobbing alone in her orange jumpsuit, I didn't look back once.
