Chapter 6 - The Smear Campaign
The drive home was silent, save for the hum of the tires on the asphalt. Gemma sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window, her hand resting over mine on the gear shift.
"Mom?" she said as we turned onto our tree-lined street.
"Yes, honey?"
"Are we going to be okay?"
I pulled the car into our modest driveway, cut the engine, and turned to look at her. Our two-story craftsman bungalow, with its slightly overgrown rose bushes and chipped porch paint, looked like heaven compared to the cold marble of that country club.
"We are going to be more than okay," I said firmly. "We are going to be peaceful. And that is worth more than all the country clubs in the world."
That evening, I helped Gemma into her favorite oversized pajamas, ordered a massive pepperoni pizza, and let her watch three consecutive episodes of her favorite baking show. For a few hours, the illusion of calm held.
Then, at 9:00 PM, my phone began to vibrate violently on the kitchen counter.
It was a barrage of text messages, notifications, and missed calls. I picked it up with a sinking feeling in my stomach.
Garrett hadn't wasted any time.
A post was circulating across local community pages and professional networks, penned by Eleanor Vance’s public relations firm. It featured an old photo of Garrett smiling warmly, flanked by a statement:
*“Due to unforeseen circumstances involving the severe emotional and psychological instability of the bride, the Vance-Miller wedding has been postponed indefinitely. The Vance family requests privacy as we navigate this painful revelation and seek legal counsel regarding breach of contract and emotional distress.”*
Below the statement, comments were already piling up. Garrett’s society friends were chiming in:
*“Always knew she was a social climber.”*
*“Poor Garrett, dodged a bullet. She always seemed unhinged.”*
*“I hear she made a ridiculous scene over nothing. Feel terrible for his mother.”*
My stomach twisted into a cold knot. It was a classic Vance move: weaponize prestige, strike first, and rewrite reality before the truth could lace up its shoes.
Then came a text directly from Garrett’s private number:
*“You think you won today? Check your business email tomorrow morning, Sierra. Let’s see how many corporate clients want a crazy woman designing their brand identities. You embarrassed me in front of the managing partners. You’re going to pay for every single penny I lost today, and I will make sure Gemma knows that her mother ruined her own future out of sheer spite.”*
My breath hitched. He wasn't just angry; he was vindictive. Garrett worked as a senior corporate attorney with ties to several city municipal boards—boards that routinely contracted graphic design and marketing work to my small agency.
If he used his political clout to blacklist me, Gemma and I could lose our house within six months.
My hands began to shake, not from fear, but from the terrifying realization of how close I had come to legally binding myself to a monster.
Suddenly, a quiet voice came from the kitchen doorway.
"Mom?"
I looked up. Gemma was standing there holding her iPad.
"I found something," she said quietly.
"Honey, you shouldn't be reading what people are posting online—"
"No, Mom. Not the internet. In my backpack. When Garrett helped me carry my school bag out of his car last Tuesday, he accidentally put his work tablet in the front pouch. He told me he forgot where he left it, but it was at the bottom of my bag under my science textbooks."
I stared at her. "His tablet?"
"He told me never to touch it," Gemma said, her voice small. "He said if I ever opened it, he’d know. But... he was mean to you, Mom. And you stood up for me."
She walked over to the kitchen table and placed Garrett’s slim, black corporate iPad on the wooden surface.
I looked at the device. It was a secure work tablet, but I remembered Garrett complaining last week about resetting his passcode to the same six digits he used for everything: the date of his first successful appellate court victory.
My heart began to race.
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If Garrett wanted to wage a war of reputations, he had made one fatal mistake: he had forgotten where he left his weapons.
***
