Six months later, the Denver District Courthouse smelled of old wood, floor polish, and impending consequence.

I sat at the prosecution’s table beside Deputy District Attorney Marcus Thorne and my attorney, Elena Vance.

I was wearing a tailored charcoal-grey blazer with a high silk collar. The hydrogel dressings were gone, replaced by a delicate, pale-pink line of hypertrophic scarring that traced from the high ridge of my left cheekbone down toward my jaw. Thanks to three reconstructive surgeries and cutting-edge laser debridement performed by Dr. Pierce’s surgical team, my eye had been saved, though the skin around it remained sensitive, a permanent reminder of the fire that had swept across my life.

I did not wear makeup over the scars.

I wore them like armor.

Across the aisle sat Cassidy, Lydia, and Tyler Hughes.

They were no longer the golden triumvirate of social media royalty.

Cassidy sat in a drab, ill-fitting beige prison jumpsuit, her blonde hair dull, dark roots growing out past her ears. Her hands were cuffed to a chain around her waist. Tyler sat three chairs down, wearing a cheap suit, his eyes fixed on the wooden defense table, having already accepted a plea bargain that morning to testify against Cassidy and Lydia in exchange for a suspended sentence and five years of strict felony probation.

Lydia Voss sat between two private defense attorneys, looking withered and twenty years older. Her Hermès bag was gone, her bank accounts frozen by court order to secure assets for my pending civil judgment.

“All rise,” the bailiff announced.

Judge Martinez took the bench, a formidable woman with sharp silver hair and thirty years of judicial experience.

“State of Colorado versus Cassidy Voss and Lydia Voss,” Judge Martinez began, shuffling through the thick sentencing and plea documentation. “The court has received the allocution statements, the victim impact report, and the medical evaluations. Before I accept the terms of the open guilty pleas entered by the defendants, I will hear the victim’s statement. Ms. Meredith Voss, you may approach the podium.”

I stood up, smoothing the front of my blazer.

Elena gave my hand a brief, reassuring squeeze. As I walked to the wooden lectern in the center of the courtroom, my heels clicked with a steady, unhurried rhythm.

Cassidy did not look at me. She stared down at her cuffed wrists, her breathing shallow and ragged. Lydia kept her face buried in a crumpled tissue.

I adjusted the microphone.

“Your Honor,” I began, my voice steady, carrying clearly through the silent courtroom and into the gallery where dozens of reporters sat scribbling in their notepads. “For thirty-five years, I lived in the shadow of a performance. In our family, pain was not something to be comforted; it was material to be monetized. Compassion was considered weakness, and integrity was called boring.”

I turned my head slightly, looking directly at Cassidy.

“My sister did not throw that glass because she was having a bad day. She did not throw it because of an accident. She threw it because she believed that human beings are disposable props in the theater of her vanity. She believed that because she had an audience of millions, she was exempt from the basic laws of human decency.”

Cassidy flinched, a quiet sob escaping her lips.

“When seventy percent trichloroacetic acid touches human skin,” I continued, looking back at Judge Martinez, “it triggers an immediate coagulative necrosis. It feels as though someone has pressed a red-hot branding iron against your face and left it there to sizzle. Dr. Pierce spent forty-five minutes washing my skin away into a plastic bucket. For three months, I could not sleep on my left side. I could not step into the sunlight without blinding pain. But the physical scars are not the worst damage she caused.”

I paused, letting the silence settle over the room.

“The worst damage was the realization that my mother stood behind her, held the checkbook to purchase the chemical, and then pressed a napkin into my burning flesh to hide the evidence so the cameras wouldn't stop rolling. They traded my face for a three-hundred-thousand-dollar television pilot.”

Lydia let out a choked wail, dropping her head onto the defense table.

“I am not here today to ask for mercy, Your Honor,” I concluded quietly. “Mercy requires remorse. Cassidy and Lydia do not regret what they did to me. They only regret that the cameras were pointing the wrong way when the handcuffs were put on. I ask for the maximum sentence permitted by law.”

Judge Martinez nodded solemnly. “Thank you, Ms. Voss.”

She turned her gaze toward the defense table. Her expression was hard as granite.

“In my twenty-two years on this bench,” Judge Martinez said, her voice ringing through the chambers, “I have rarely seen such an appalling display of narcissistic depravity. To weaponize a corrosive chemical against your own blood for the sake of digital applause and financial greed is an offense against the very fabric of civilized society.”

Cassidy began to shake violently.

“Cassidy Voss,” the judge commanded. “On Count One, Aggravated Assault with a Deadly Weapon causing Serious Bodily Injury, you are hereby sentenced to eight years in the Colorado Department of Corrections. On Count Two, Conspiracy to Commit Aggravated Assault, you are sentenced to an additional four years, to run concurrently. You will serve a mandatory eighty-five percent of this sentence before becoming eligible for parole.”

Cassidy’s knees buckled. A guttural scream ripped from her throat as the bailiffs caught her by her arms, holding her upright. “No! Please! Judge, please! I didn't mean to! I didn't know!”

Judge Martinez did not blink. She turned to Lydia Voss.

“Lydia Voss. On the charges of Tampering with Physical Evidence and Complicity in Aggravated Assault, you are hereby sentenced to three years in state prison, followed by three years of mandatory community supervision. Your reckless disregard for your own child’s safety and your deliberate obstruction of medical aid is morally repugnant.”

The gavel slammed down with the force of an executioner’s axe.

*Bang.*

“Court is adjourned.”

As the bailiffs dragged Cassidy toward the side door leading to the holding cells, she twisted her body, locking her red, terrified eyes on mine for the first time in six months.

“Meredith!” she wailed, her voice cracking into high-pitched hysteria. “Meredith, please tell them! Tell them you forgive me! You’re my sister! MEREDITH!”

I did not speak.

I did not look away.

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***