Chapter 7 - The Downfall
The viral storm that followed was merciless.
In the digital world Fallon had worshiped, public sentiment turns faster than milk in the sun. The moment the Westchester County Police Department released the official booking photo of Fallon Ward—her mascara running, her bridal hair flattened, her eyes wide with unvarnished panic—the internet went to work.
A wedding guest had captured the incident on an iPhone from an elevated angle, completely independent of Evan's production cameras, and uploaded it to social media.
The video was horrific.
It showed Fallon’s smiling, predatory approach; the deliberate, wide splash of the cloudy pink liquid across my face; and my immediate, guttural scream of agony. It showed me dropping to my knees as my skin blistered in real time. And most condemning of all, it picked up Fallon’s voice clearly through her lapel microphone:
*"Keep filming. Don’t be dramatic, Sloan."*
Within forty-eight hours, the video had amassed over forty million views.
The backlash was catastrophic.
Fallon’s social media accounts—once boasting 1.2 million followers—lost five hundred thousand followers in a single day before her management company abruptly deleted them. Every brand that had ever paid her for a sponsorship issued scathing public disavowals. A major skincare company released a statement:
*"We are deeply horrified by the violent actions of Fallon Ward. We have severed all historical ties with her and are making a fifty-thousand-dollar donation to the Northwell Burn Trauma Foundation in honor of Sloan Ward."*
Evan Mercer’s production company dissolved within seventy-two hours. Investors pulled funding, his talent representation dropped him via email, and his landlord changed the locks on his Manhattan office space.
Two days after the grand jury indictment, Fallon was denied bail due to flight risk after the authorities discovered she had attempted to book a one-way flight to Dubai using an alias credit card.
Meanwhile, in the hospital, the updates on my condition were slowly turning positive.
Dr. Vance removed the bandages on day four to inspect the skin grafts that were thankfully deemed unnecessary.
"The corneal epithelium is regenerating," Dr. Vance explained, shining a specialized slit lamp into my left eye. "Greer's quick action with the saline prevented deep stromal melting. You will have mild light sensitivity for a few months, but your vision will return to twenty-twenty."
I looked into the small hand mirror Dr. Vance handed me.
The skin on my left cheek and along the corner of my jaw was dark pink and raw, with healing scabs tracing the line where the liquid had splashed. It looked terrible, but it looked alive. The doctor assured me that with silicone gel sheets, light laser resurfacing, and time, the scarring would fade to a thin, barely noticeable silver contour.
"You got lucky, Sloan," Dr. Vance said gently. "You flinched at the exact right millisecond."
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"I didn't get lucky," I said, staring at my reflection without flinching. "I paid attention to patterns. I knew she was dangerous. I just took too long to walk away."
***
