Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Shae
You know you’ve made it when the world demands your release more than you do—when strangers tattoo your face on their thigh and chant your name like it’s scripture.
Shae Halston: misunderstood icon.
Shae Halston: wrongfully convicted saint.
Shae Halston: survivor.
They eat it up. Every last bite.
I lean back against the cinder block wall of my cell, eyes on the narrow slice of sky above the bars. Cloudless. California blue. It’s almost funny how easy it is to steer perception when people are starving for a savior in lipstick and heels.
The toothbrush shank rests against my thigh beneath my uniform. Notched smooth. Clean. Sharp enough to graze my cheek and leave exactly the kind of evidence the internet will worship.
It won’t take much. A little blood. A scream. A few shaky cell videos. Harper Lane sobbing into her mic about systemic injustice and prison abuse.
I don’t need a gun. I don’t need a team.
I need a story.
One that bleeds.
And right on cue—
“Halston.” Declan steps into the hall, voice low, controlled—tight at the edges. “You ready?”
Always.
I stand slowly, smoothing the front of my uniform like I’m waiting for my crown.
“You sure you want to go through with this?” Declan murmurs. “There’s no turning back after this, Shae.”
“Oh, Declan.” I tilt my head, smile. “There never was.”
His gaze flicks to the camera in the corner—currently looping a harmless feed he arranged at my request—then back to me.
“Two minutes,” he says. “Then I open the wing doors and let chaos reign. You do your part. I’ll handle mine.”
I press my hand to his chest and feel his heart bucking under my palm. “You’re a good man, Declan. The world will see that soon.”
He swallows, turns away, and walks toward the control panel.
The toothbrush is warm from my skin when I slide it into my palm.
This is the moment.
One clean stroke down my left cheek—precise, not deep enough to do real damage, but jagged enough to look vicious. Blood beads instantly, hot and metallic. I crouch by the toilet, smear it across my jaw, drag my sleeve through it. The cut sings.
I breathe through the pain. Pain is easy. Pain is honest.
From the far end of the corridor: a click. The whine of a door unlatching.
Then shouting.
I stumble into the hallway and drag a bloodied hand down the wall as I stagger like prey. On the other side of the block, Declan’s little storm hits: women screaming, one lunging, others sucked into the chaos like it’s gravity. Metal clatters. A plastic chair cracks against something hard.
It sounds real.
That’s the brilliance.
I scream—once. Sharp. Panicked. Believable.
Then I crumple, clutching my face like I’ve been mauled.
Declan is already there, body blocking me, barking for backup with pitch-perfect alarm.
Down the corridor, Blake Owens—Evelyn’s cinematographer—captures everything from the far end of the hall, lens locked on my contorted face. He looks appropriately horrified. Blake has no idea this is staged.
But he’ll get his Emmy.
Minutes blur. Sirens. Boots. Hands on my arms. I’m swept away like a broken-winged dove, tucked against Declan’s chest as blood trickles down my collarbone and soaks the edge of my collar.
I make sure to catch Blake’s lens before the curtain swallows me.
Make sure the world sees the pain in my eyes.
Make sure it’s beautiful.
They put me in isolation. They call it protection.
I call it marketing.
Harper loses her mind when the news hits. Her voice cracks that night, begging her listeners to demand answers. Evelyn paces outside the prison gates with a camera in one hand and a megaphone in the other. Protesters gather. Signs wave. Someone spray-paints FREE SHAE on the outer wall.
God, I love when people think they’re saving me.
I sit on the edge of my cot, sipping lukewarm tea, staring at the press release that’s been slid under my door:
The Influencer Murders: The Wrongful Conviction of Shae Halston — Season 2 Confirmed.
The Netflix logo glows in black and red.
My face—bloodied, brave—everywhere.
Mission accomplished.
Declan visits just after four a.m., slipping past protocol like a man drunk on misplaced devotion.
“You okay?” he whispers, crouching beside my cot. “It got out of hand fast. I didn’t expect Ramirez to have a box cutter.”
I give him a tired smile. “I’m fine. Just… extra flair for the cameras.”
His mouth tightens. “This is insane. They’re going to reassign me after this.”
“You won’t let them,” I say, threading my fingers through his. “Because I need you. And because you want to be the one who saves me. You said so yourself.”
His jaw flexes.
“You’re the only one who sees the truth, Declan,” I murmur. “You always have.”
I swallow a grin. People don’t want truth. They want a version they can live with.
He leans in like he’s going to kiss me, and I turn at the last second so his lips land on my cheek—just beside the bandage.
Let him feel my pain.
He leaves minutes later, promising to text Blake some “leaked footage.” The plan is working. It always works when the stakes feel personal.
People don’t fight for causes.
They fight for characters.
And I’ve given them one hell of a heroine.
* * *
Two days later, my new lawyer arrives from the LA County Innocence Project—crisp suit, sharp eyes, fire she thinks is righteous.
“We’ve filed for an emergency injunction,” she says.
“Your injuries, the lack of oversight, the botched investigation, a biased, predominantly male jury—there’s plenty of reasonable doubt surrounding Agent Taylor Newsome’s death.
The podcast has generated over eight million new downloads since the attack.
It’s everywhere. Public outrage. Protesters calling for your immediate release. ”
She doesn’t ask how I got hurt.
She doesn’t want to know.
“I want a personal interview with Evelyn tomorrow,” I say. “Exclusive. From here.”
“I’ll make it happen,” she says, already scrolling.
By the time the appeal date is announced, I’ll be America’s favorite redemption arc. I listen as Harper sobs through another segment, begging her listeners to “be the change.”
She’s not wrong.
Change is coming.
The world’s been too soft on monsters like me.
They deserve someone who bites back.
Every woman who scares people gets labeled unstable.
It just so happens I’m the kind of girl who wears that label like armor.