Chapter 7 - The Crumbling Empire
The fall of Sutton Vance was swift, brutal, and entirely self-inflicted.
Within twenty-four hours of her arrest, every single corporate brand that had partnered with her severed ties. The luxury bridal boutique that had gifted her $25,000 gown issued a public statement demanding its immediate return and announced a $50,000 donation to an orthopedic rehabilitation clinic. Her verified social media accounts, which had once boasted over two million followers, lost hundreds of thousands of users an hour before her management agency abruptly deleted them to stem the tide of public outrage.
The internet, which Sutton had worshipped as her personal kingdom, turned upon her with ruthless efficiency. The hashtag #JusticeForFallon trended globally. Medical professionals posted reaction videos analyzing the physics of the kick and the catastrophic force exerted on my knee, debunking every feeble excuse Eleanor attempted to float to conservative tabloids.
On Wednesday morning, my hospital room looked like a botanical garden, filled with arrangements sent not by society snobs, but by old friends, former classmates, and total strangers who had seen through the facade.
Alden had not left my side except to shower and change. He had set up a makeshift workstation in the corner of the room, quietly handling his own venture capital firm's affairs while ensuring that hospital security vetted every visitor with extreme scrutiny.
"Dr. Harrison says you're ready for physical transfer tomorrow," Alden said, closing his laptop and walking over to my bed. He had a look of profound gentleness in his eyes that made my pulse flutter despite myself. "My family has a private rehabilitation estate in the Berkshires. Full medical staff, on-site hydrotherapy, top-tier physical therapists. No paparazzi, no press, and no Eleanor."
I looked down at my hands, nervously picking at the hospital bracelet. "Alden... you've already done so much. The lawyers, the security, Marcus... I can't let you pay for a private clinic. I don't have the funds to repay you. Eleanor cut off my bank account yesterday."
Alden let out a soft, dismissive breath. He pulled a chair close to my bed and sat down, leaning in so his gaze captured mine completely.
"Eleanor didn't cut off your money, Fallon," he said quietly.
I frowned. "What do you mean? I tried to use my debit card for the hospital pharmacy co-pay this morning, and it was declined. My mother was the primary on that trust account."
"Your trust account was established by your maternal grandfather before he passed away fifteen years ago," Alden explained, his voice simmering with righteous anger. "Victoria subpoenaed the financial records yesterday as part of our asset discovery for the civil suit. Eleanor has been illegally skimming from your principal balance for the last seven years to fund Sutton’s lifestyle, her fashion tours, and her PR retainers."
The revelation hit me like a physical blow. "My grandfather's trust? He left that for my education and medical care."
"There was nearly 1.8 million dollars in that account when you turned eighteen," Alden said. "There is less than twelve thousand left today. Victoria filed an emergency petition for an asset freeze this morning. The judge granted it within twenty minutes. All of your mother's accounts, Sutton’s luxury vehicles, and the family estate’s secondary lines of credit are currently locked under a judicial freeze."
I stared at him, numb. "They stole everything."
"And they are going to give every red cent back," Alden said firmly. "With interest. But right now, you don't need to worry about money, or lawyers, or trials. Your only job is to heal. Will you come to the Berkshires with me?"
I looked into his eyes—the same eyes that had looked at me with tenderness three years ago, before lies had torn us apart. There was no hesitation in them now. No manipulation. Only truth.
"Yes," I whispered. "I'll go."
Before he could answer, the door swung open, and my father walked in.
He looked ten years older. His suit was wrinkled, his eyes bloodshot, his hands trembling violently. He didn't have his usual entourage of country club cronies. He was utterly, completely alone.
Alden stood up instantly, stepping into an obstructive posture. "Robert. You were told not to come here."
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"Please," my father rasped, his voice cracking. He raised two empty hands in a gesture of total surrender. "Alden, please. Just five minutes with my daughter. Just five minutes. That's all I ask."
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