The Icon (The Influencer #4)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Shae

“Most people don’t end up in prison for caregiving,” I say into the mic, smooth as silk, my voice sliding into the ears of millions. “Most people aren’t wrongfully accused of ending the life of a federal agent.”

I smile and settle deeper into the orange plastic chair that makes my spine scream after fifteen minutes. “But then again, most people didn’t have a mother who left them in a house full of roaches and addicts before reinventing herself as a family therapist.”

Pause. Beat. Let them chew.

I lower my voice and let it crack—just enough.

“Kelly Fraser wasn’t just my therapist for twenty years.

She was my blood. And I didn’t even know.

” I tilt my head like the memory still stings.

“Imagine confessing your darkest secrets to the woman who abandoned you. It takes a special kind of woman to diagnose you instead of loving you. She listened to my pain like it was data. Very useful. Very detached.”

Behind the glass, Harper Lane presses her headphones tighter like she’s holding on to every syllable I gift her. Her pupils widen when I talk trauma. She’s got that good-girl-saves-the-villain fantasy lodged somewhere behind her brows, and I play to it shamelessly.

She’s the kind of woman who mistakes sincerity for virtue. It scares me how predictable she is.

“I didn’t hurt her,” I say. “I helped her. The system failed Kelly. Left her broken. Paranoid. She wasn’t safe alone.”

There. Another seed. Plant it. Water it.

Never mind that I was the one with the hot coals and the rage. Never mind that Kelly begged me to stop. None of that matters once the narrative is in motion, spiraling like an Instagram reel with the perfect soundtrack.

A woman protecting her fragile, mentally ill mother? Cue the TikTok commentary. Cue the sympathy.

My hour is almost up. I tip my chin toward the mic and let the tremor return, calibrated. “Everyone wants to believe the worst. They look at scars and see a monster.” A soft inhale, like I’m steadying myself. “But monsters don’t cry when no one’s watching.”

Harper’s jaw trembles.

Bingo.

She offers me a weak smile, like the world hasn’t already shown her its teeth. It’s Sophie—my sister—all over again. Same open face, same trusting eyes, like goodness is some renewable resource instead of something that gets used up early if you’re unlucky.

I tell myself it’s sweet. I tell myself it’s harmless.

But the truth hums underneath: if girls like Harper can still exist, then Sophie didn’t have to die—and I can’t live with that math.

A flash of resentment, quick and ugly.

If Harper disappeared, the story would make sense again.

I shove the thought away.

I’m not that girl anymore.

Mostly.

Evelyn—perched near the back with her camera crew—doesn’t blink. She’s a different breed. She’s not here for redemption. She’s here for blood. I’ve seen the way her camera lingers on my wrists, catching the fading bruises from last month’s scuffle. I’ve heard her pre-interview questions.

Did you ever fantasize about hurting Kelly?

What were your feelings toward Taylor before he died?

That woman smells Emmy nominations in every flash of sociopathy I let slip. I can’t decide if I want her fired or promoted.

“You can’t choose the wounds that shape you,” I whisper into the mic. “You can only decide how to survive them.”

The silence afterward is deliberate. Designed.

“Thank you, Shae,” Harper finally says, her voice tight. “That was… powerful.”

I nod once—composed grace—then stand and stretch like a lazy jungle cat. The prison-issued sweatshirt rides up, revealing a sliver of hipbone.

Let Evelyn get that shot. America loves a little edge with their tragedy.

Officer Declan Ridge buzzes the door open. He’s twenty-nine, former army, current correctional officer, and proud owner of a hero complex. He thinks of himself as a protector, but what he really is?

Useful.

“Wrap it up, Halston. You’ve used your hour.”

“I always do,” I say, lips still parted like I might add something. I don’t.

Power lives in the pause.

Men like him are simple: money, sex, power. Repeat. Use accordingly.

I follow Declan down the corridor, fluorescent lights buzzing like flies. The air reeks of bleach and desperation.

“You’ve got fans,” he mutters, still refusing to look at me.

“Of course I do.” I don’t bother to hide the smirk. “America loves a woman in cuffs. Sexy. Tragic. Compelling.”

He snorts. “You’re something, alright.”

And he loves it.

We turn left—cell block D, minimum security’s finest. I pass familiar faces. Nicole, who stabbed her boyfriend with a fondue fork. Monique, who faked a pregnancy to scam her ex.

Amateurs. All of them.

Back in my cell, I sit on the lower bunk and stare at the opposite wall where someone scratched STAY VILE into the concrete with a nail file.

My kind of motto.

I think about Harper—how her voice softens when she says my name, like she’s tucking it under her pillow at night.

She believes me. Fully. Stupidly. She hasn’t even brushed the surface of Brianna.

Of Isaac. Of the real reasons I left Carmel with a dead woman’s blood under my nails and a neat little rental waiting in Pismo.

Then I think about Evelyn. I can’t tell if she hates me or wants to crawl inside my skin and wear it like a trophy.

Either way, she’s useful.

Netflix wants ten episodes.

I plan to use every one.

People think justice is a courtroom and a gavel.

It’s not.

It’s perception. It’s the story people choose when the truth is too messy to hold. And I’m the best storyteller I know.

I pull out my contraband notebook—gifted by Harper, smuggled in by Evelyn’s assistant under the guise of production notes. I flip to a clean page and start a list.

NEW TALKING POINTS

· Growing up without a mother

· Raised by an addicted, abusive father

· The “trauma bond” with Kelly

· Isaac and Dean’s threats before the trial

· Brianna’s instability (hint at self-harm?)

I chew the end of the pen.

Across the hall, Monique hums You Are My Sunshine like it’s a lullaby and not the soundtrack to a breakdown.

I add one more line:

Frame it right, and they’ll beg to watch you walk free.

Then I close the notebook, lean back, and smile.

My story’s just getting started.