Chapter 4 - The Smear Campaign
By noon the following day, Delaney’s viral machine had kicked into overdrive.
I was discharged from the hospital with sixteen stitches beneath a discreet compression bandage, accompanied by an armed escort arranged by Detective Miller. When I booted up my laptop in my secure, high-rise apartment downtown, the internet was already burning my life to the ground.
On Delaney’s Instagram—which boasted over two million followers—she had posted a meticulously edited two-minute video titled: *The Heartbreaking Truth About My Sister’s Unprovoked Breakdown on My Wedding Day.*
The video began with soft, mournful acoustic guitar music. Delaney sat on a plush velvet sofa in her designer bridal robe, her eyes expertly ringed in tearful red makeup, holding hands with Hayes.
"I never wanted to share this publicly," Delaney whimpered to the lens. "Family matters should stay private. But after the shocking, violent scene my older sister Sloan caused yesterday, the rumors have gotten out of hand. For years, our family has quietly covered for Sloan's declining mental stability. Yesterday, when I tried to share a lighthearted, loving sisterly tradition by placing our family tiara on her head, Sloan... she snapped."
The video cut sharply to edited footage from the reception.
The audio had been manipulated. The violent, metallic thud of Delaney crushing the spiked tiara onto my skull had been scrubbed and replaced with sweet laughter. The clip showed me violently shoving Delaney away, knocking her backward, my face twisted in wild fury. It showed the blood on my hands, followed by me coldly snapping at my mother: *“Do not touch me.”*
It looked horrific. Without the context of the needle, without the sound of the metal tearing my flesh, I looked like an unhinged, dangerous woman attacking a weeping bride.
"Sloan has always resented Hayes and me," Hayes chimed in, looking solemnly into the lens with the smooth charisma of a sociopathic hedge-fund manager. "She has resisted professional psychiatric treatment for years. We love her. We want her to get help before she hurts herself or someone else. But for the safety of our family, we have filed for an emergency protective order, and we are praying she agrees to an inpatient evaluation."
The comments were a cesspool of public condemnation:
*“What a bitter, evil spinster! Lock her up!”*
*“To do that to your little sister on her wedding day? Disgusting!”*
*“She’s a licensed therapist? Her clinic needs to be shut down immediately!”*
My professional email was overflowing with hate mail. Five clients had already canceled their appointments. Two board members of the regional psychological association had sent urgent inquiries demanding an explanation regarding the viral video.
My phone rang. The caller ID flashed: *Laurelai Montgomery.*
I took a slow, steady breath, engaged the audio recorder on my secondary tablet, and answered.
"Sloan," Laurelai’s voice was venomous, stripped entirely of the sweet matriarch facade she wore for society. "You have exactly two hours to fix this."
"Fix what, Mother?" I asked coldly.
"Hayes’s investors saw the police report you tried to file last night," Laurelai hissed. "The country club informed Hayes that detectives are demanding their security servers. You call Detective Miller right now and tell him you suffered a panic attack, that you tripped, that the injury was an accident from your own earring. You retract the statement."
"The tiara was armed with a hollow surgical needle, Mother," I said, leaning back into my chair, letting the words hang in the air. "It was coated in *Carbamyl-7*. A synthetic neurotoxin designed to make me lose my mind."
There was a dead, suffocating silence on the other end of the line.
Laurelai didn't gasp. She didn't ask if I was okay. She didn't deny it.
"Don't be ridiculous," she finally sneered, though a subtle tremor ran through her voice. "You have always had an overactive imagination, Sloan. Always playing the martyr. Arthur should never have left you that money. You don't have the stomach for wealth. Delaney and Hayes are building an empire. You’re just a miserable counselor listening to broken people whine all day."
"Did you know about the needle, Laurelai?" I asked, my voice deadly quiet. "Did you stand three feet away and watch your son-in-law poison your firstborn daughter?"
"I know that you are threatening this family's future over a minor scratch!" Laurelai barked. "Hayes has secured a ten-million-dollar distribution deal for this wedding docuseries with a major streaming platform. If you blow this deal with your psychotic police reports, I will personally sign the affidavit to have you committed. I am your mother. A judge will take my word over yours."
"Try it," I whispered. "See what happens when the forensic toxicology report hits the district attorney's desk."
"You arrogant little—"
I hung up the phone. My hands were shaking, not from fear, but from a cold, absolute resolve.
They thought they were playing an influencer PR game. They thought they could use social media outrage and family gaslighting to force me into submission, while Hayes quietly liquidated my grandfather's trust funds.
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They had no idea that while they were editing TikTok videos, the State of Washington was preparing an indictment for first-degree attempted murder.
***
