Chapter 4

"Valerie, your lease is now being managed by Sinclair Realty."

My landlord, Mrs. Higgins, sounded a hundred times more polite than usual. A fake, terrifying kind of polite.

"What do you mean managed by them? I pay my rent directly to you every month. Since when does Sinclair Realty have anything to do with my apartment?"

"Well... they acquired our building's management team recently. They claim you have three months of unpaid building maintenance fees."

"Three months? I've lived here for a year and a half. I have never missed a single payment!"

"Valerie, I'm sorry... they sent a legal notice, and my hands are tied. Maybe you should take it up with their management?"

"Take what up? Just tell me the truth. Did someone pay you to kick me out?"

The line went dead.

I stood outside my apartment building, with nothing but my phone and the jacket I wore yesterday.

My evening gown was still backstage, likely confiscated as "evidence."

My phone buzzed.

A text from an unknown number: *Valerie, your breach of contract fine has been adjusted to $8 million due to the severe reputational damage you have caused to the organizers. The committee reserves the right to pursue further legal action.*

Eight million.

From five million to eight million.

I swiped the message away and searched my name on Instagram.

Trending topic: *Valerie Miller Weight Fraud.*

I clicked it. The top post was a new video.

It showed a girl in loose sportswear, viewed from behind, looking quite chubby, stuffing her face at an all-you-can-eat buffet. The camera panned quickly to her profile—the face looked eighty percent like mine.

But it wasn't me.

I never went to buffets. My stomach had shrunk so much from stress that I could barely finish half a bowl of soup.

But the internet didn't care about facts.

*“So she really is over two hundred pounds? She must be a secret binge-eater.”*

*“She looked thin when she ripped her dress, but body dysmorphia makes people do crazy things.”*

*“I feel so bad for Chloe. She’s being targeted by a crazy person.”*

Deepfake. They actually deepfaked a video of me eating.

I tried to log into my own Instagram account to post a statement, but the screen flashed: *Incorrect Password.*

I tried three times. All incorrect.

They had hacked my account.

I went to a local internet cafe to submit an account recovery request. The system required me to upload a photo of my ID and a selfie holding it.

I did it. Five minutes later, a red warning popped up: *This account has been permanently suspended for spreading misinformation.*

The reporting party: *The Digital Integrity Alliance.*

I looked up the registry of that organization.

The registered owner's name: *Richard Sinclair.*

Chloe's father.

I walked to three different news outlets.

At the first one, the receptionist waved me off the moment she heard my name. "We don't do personal disputes. Get a lawyer."

At the second, a junior editor actually listened to me for ten minutes, but then asked one question.

"Do you have proof?"

"I heard Chloe on the phone saying they removed the chip from the scale—"

"Heard conversations aren't legally admissible evidence. Do you have a recording?"

"No. They took my phone."

The editor closed his notebook.

"Did you secure the scale?"

"They swapped it out."

"Valerie, I believe you, but everything you have is just hearsay. If we publish this, they'll sue us for defamation, and we will lose."

The third outlet didn't even let me past the lobby. The security guard stood in my way. "Mr. Sinclair called ahead. We know who you are. Leave."

Mr. Sinclair. Even the security guards at random news stations called him "Mr. Sinclair."

I sat on the curb, clutching my locked-out phone.

An incoming call popped up. Caller ID: *Los Angeles.*

I answered.

"Valerie Miller? This is Arthur Pendelton from the legal department at Sinclair Media Group."

"Speak."

"Regarding your recent slanderous claims online—"

"My account is suspended! What claims could I possibly be making?"

"We have logs of private messages you sent to various influencers before your suspension, containing defamatory statements about Chloe Sinclair and Robert Croft."

"You hacked my private messages too?"

"That data was legally provided by the platform under terms of service violations. Valerie, I am here to inform you of two things: First, if you continue to spread these lies, we will file a formal defamation lawsuit. Second—"

He paused.

"Given your current mental state, Chloe Sinclair has filed an emergency petition for an involuntary psychiatric evaluation. If approved, you will be escorted to a designated medical facility for a thirty-day mandatory observation period."

My scalp went numb.

"You're trying to throw me in an asylum?"

"It's a luxury care facility, Valerie. It's for your own good."

I slammed the phone down.

The sun was setting, casting my shadow on the pavement—thin as a wire.

A wire they claimed weighed 231 pounds.

The phone rang again. My mother.

"Valerie! Two men just came into my room. They said they're transferring me to a 'high-security ward.' They told me you signed the papers—"

"Mom, I didn't sign anything! Don't let them take you. I'm coming!"

"Valerie, I'm scared—"

I stood up, my knees buckling. I had to grab the lamppost to keep from falling.

An eight-million-dollar lawsuit, a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar agency debt, my social media blocked, my apartment seized, the media bribed, and my mother threatened.

And I had absolutely nothing.

My screen lit up with a text from an unknown number. It was only one line:

*“Valerie, I recorded the entire live stream before they cut the feed. Do you want it?”*

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