Chapter 5 - The Actuary’s Cross-Examination (approx. 1,800 words)Three days after the wedding that stopped Manhattan, I sat at my sleek walnut desk in my fiftieth-floor office overlooking the Hudson River.
My computer screen displayed a complex risk-assessment model for a commercial shipping portfolio, but my mind wasn't on maritime insurance liabilities. It was on the deposition scheduled for tomorrow morning.
Greer walked into my office carrying two cups of black coffee, setting one down beside my keyboard with a sympathetic smile.
“How’s the eye?” she asked softly, pulling up the guest chair opposite my desk.
“Manageable,” I replied, taking a cautious sip of the hot coffee. “The stinging has stopped. Now it just feels like a bad sunburn. How are things looking downstairs?”
Greer grinned, a triumphant sparkle in her eyes. “The internet is in absolute meltdown. Fallon’s Instagram account was suspended by platform moderation yesterday after thousands of users reported the live stream footage of the acid toss for graphic violence and violation of community standards. Her follower count has dropped by four hundred thousand in seventy-two hours.”
“And Sybil?”
“Sybil tried to hire a high-profile crisis PR firm this morning, but every agency in the city turned her down once they saw Detective Miller’s probable cause affidavit. Nobody wants to touch a client who literally broadcasted a felony assault on a wedding live stream.”
My phone buzzed on the desk. It was an incoming call from an unfamiliar number with a Washington state area code, but the caller ID tag displayed a local legal firm representing Evan Mercer.
I hit speakerphone and answered. “This is Sloan Ward.”
“Ms. Ward,” a sharp, professional male voice spoke up. “My name is Arthur Pendelton. I represent Evan Mercer, your sister’s husband.”
“Mr. Pendelton,” I said evenly. “If you’re calling to ask me to drop charges against my sister, save your breath. I’m an actuary; I don't negotiate with sunk costs.”
“I’m not calling to ask you to drop charges,” the lawyer replied quickly. “In fact, Mr. Mercer has filed for an immediate annulment on grounds of fraud and willful concealment of a hazardous criminal act prior to marriage. Evan had zero knowledge of Fallon’s plan to use industrial solvent, and he has turned over his entire personal archive of unedited production footage to the Manhattan District Attorney’s office to prove it.”
I raised an eyebrow. Self-preservation in the digital age was truly a sight to behold. Evan Mercer wasn't going down with a sinking ship; he was cutting the life rafts loose and paddling toward shore as fast as his career could carry him.
“What does Mr. Pendelton want from me, then?” I asked.
“Mr. Mercer wishes to offer his full cooperation as a witness for the prosecution,” the lawyer said smoothly. “Furthermore, he wants to ensure you know that any civil claims for medical damages, pain and suffering, and emotional distress will be fully supported by his legal team against Fallon’s remaining assets.”
“Send the paperwork to my attorney,” I said, and disconnected the call.
Greer let out a low whistle. “Well. Rats deserting a sinking ship is an understatement. Evan threw Fallon under the bus faster than you can calculate a mortality table.”
“He’s protecting his production company,” I said, leaning back in my leather chair. “Evan cares about one thing: his brand. Fallon became a liability the moment the NYPD pulled that chemical container from the janitorial closet.”
Before Greer could answer, my office door swung open without a knock.
It wasn't an assistant. It was Sybil.
My mother looked ten years older than she had three days ago. Her designer suit was wrinkled, her hair was unstyled, and the fierce, controlling arrogance that had defined her entire life had completely vanished, replaced by a desperate, hollow exhaustion.
“Sloan,” Sybil whispered, taking a hesitant step into the office. She looked at the white medical patch on my cheek, and for a fleeting second, something resembling genuine maternal remorse flickered in her eyes.
“You shouldn't be here, Sybil,” I said, using her first name deliberately. The title of mother was something she had forfeited the moment she told me I was ruining the footage while my face was literally dissolving.
“Please,” Sybil choked out, her voice cracking as she clutched her handbag against her chest. “The District Attorney is charging Fallon with a class D felony. She’s facing up to seven years in prison. Her life is over, Sloan. Everything she built—everything we built—is gone.”
I stood up slowly from my desk, walking around to face her directly. My posture was straight, unyielding, and entirely composed.
“Fallon didn't build an empire, Sybil,” I said quietly. “She built a house of cards out of manufactured drama, cruelty, and online vanity. And she chose to set it on fire with industrial acid while the cameras rolled.”
Sybil reached out, her trembling hand brushing against my sleeve. “She’s your sister. Can’t you tell the DA it was a terrible accident? Can’t you sign an affidavit saying it was just a misunderstanding?”
I looked down at her hand, then met her eyes with absolute, unshakeable calm.
“When I was ten years old, Fallon pushed me off the high diving board at the country club because she wanted the instructor’s attention,” I said, my voice entirely devoid of anger, operating purely on cold, hard fact. “You told me to stop crying because I was embarrassing the family. When I was twenty, Fallon leaked my personal college financial aid records online because she wanted to mock my budget spreadsheets. You told me I needed to toughen up.”
Sybil shrank back, her lips parting in a silent gasp.
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“You taught Fallon that other people’s pain was just background noise for her success,” I continued softly. “You created this monster, Sybil. And for the first time in my life, I am not going to quietly clean up the mess behind you.”
Sybil stared at me, finally realizing that the quiet, serious, responsible older sister she had dismissed her entire life was no longer willing to play her assigned role in the family tragedy.
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