Chapter 15
Down in the high-security holding cells of the federal detention center, Isabella Vance was learning what it meant to lose a curated reality. Gone were the silk gowns, the professional makeup artists, and the adoring crowds of wealthy elites. In their place was a fluorescent-lit, grey concrete box, a stainless steel toilet, and a coarse orange jumpsuit that hung loosely on her frame.
Her hair, stripped of its expensive extensions and styling products, hung limp around her hollow, panic-stricken face. She sat on the edge of the bolted-down metal cot, her fingernails—now stripped of their manicured acrylics—scratching frantically at the peeling paint on the wall.
The heavy iron door rattled loudly, and the small window slid open. A guard's stern face appeared in the slot. "Vance. Legal visit. Room three."
"I don't want to see them," Isabella snapped, her voice shrill and cracked from days of screaming. "Tell my lawyer I want a new deal! Tell him I want house arrest! My father has influence, he can buy me bail!"
May you like
"Your father resigned from the board this morning, Vance," the guard replied coldly, a grim satisfaction in his tone. "And your sister just took over as CEO. You don't have a lawyer anymore. The public defender is waiting. Move."
Isabella scrambled backward on the cot, a guttural shriek of absolute terror escaping her throat as the heavy iron door swung open, revealing the bleak, inescapable reality of her new existence.
