Chapter Thirty-Nine
Sloane
Rikers Island — Day 3
The "No Emotion" clause is easy to maintain when you're sitting in a climate-controlled office behind three inches of bulletproof glass. It is impossible when you're sitting on a thin, plastic cot in a room that smells of industrial bleach, unwashed bodies, and the low, vibrating hum of collective despair.
They strip me of the navy pinstripe suit. They strip me of the forest-scented perfume. Now, I am just a number in a bright orange jumpsuit that chafes my skin until it's raw. My "armor" has been replaced by cotton and shame.
The lawyers Vane sends are vultures in silk ties. They don't look me in the eye. They talk about "plea bargains" and "mitigating circumstances" in hushed, clinical tones. They talk as if I actually committed the crimes Arthur pinned on me. Every time they open their mouths, I feel the dirt of the accusation settling into my skin.
"Mr. Sterling is doing everything he can," the lead lawyer—a man named Sterling, no relation, though just as cold—tells me through the scratched plexiglass. "But the optics are a goddamn nightmare, Sloane. The public sees a billionaire and his 'femme fatale' assistant. They want blood, and they want it in prime time."
"I didn't do it," I say, my voice sounding thin and hollow, like it belongs to a ghost. "He knows I didn't do it. He was there. He watched the tapes."
"Knowing and proving are different currencies," the lawyer replies, tapping his gold pen against the table. The sound reminds me of Vane, and my stomach twists. "Vane is currently under house arrest. The board has placed him on administrative leave and frozen his access to the firm's servers. He can't reach you. He can't even call you."
House arrest. The king is locked in his castle, and I am rotting in the dungeon.
The irony isn't lost on me. Vane wanted to keep me "indefinitely." He wanted to ensure I had nowhere else to go. Well, he got his wish. I am in a cage so small I can touch both walls at once if I stretch my arms. I am finally his "protected" asset—safe from the world, and buried alive.
Tonight, the real hell breaks loose. The other inmates know exactly who I am. To them, I'm not a whistleblower or a daughter trying to save her mother. I'm the "Billionaire's Bitch." The girl who tried to steal forty million dollars and got caught.
I spend the night curled in a ball on the cold floor, the thin mattress offering no comfort. I listen to the screams echoing down the hall and the rhythmic, violent banging of metal cups against bars. I realize then that my loyalty to Vane Sterling hasn't just cost me my reputation. It hasn't just cost me my soul.
It has cost me my life.
And as I stare at the flickering fluorescent light overhead, I wonder if Vane is watching the same moon from his penthouse, or if he's already auditing the cost of replacing me.