Chapter 13 The Threat
Apple had been unusually quiet online after receiving the invitation to speak with investigators about her financial crimes. It wasn’t public knowledge yet, but the shift was noticeable. Fewer posts. Fewer stories. No impulsive lives.
On the surface it almost looked like reflection. Fear, perhaps. Maybe even growth.
But from what I had seen on her cloned phone, Apple wasn’t changing.
She was unraveling.
Not only did she fail to secure work with Sinclair Enterprises, Knox had banned her from the building entirely. Security had her name and face flagged. She also hadn’t managed to “accidentally” run into him anywhere since. No clubs. No charity events. No restaurants. No elevators. No nothing.
She ranted about it to Marissa in long voice messages and increasingly unhinged texts.
And she ranted about me.
About how I had stolen everything again. How I was a slut. How I was clearly trying to get into Knox’s pants. How I was ruining her life the same way I always had.
In one voice message she spat that over her dead body would I take Knox from her.
Then Leo happened.
A video of the press conference moment was clipped and reposted countless times, layered with dramatic music and captions. Within hours it had millions of views, the comments moving faster than anyone could track.
I became internet-famous.
That alone was enough to push her jealous ass over the edge.
She commented under the video.
“She’s always been good at this.”
Because of the blue checkmark, the comment was boosted almost instantly.
Replies poured in.
“good at WHAT??”
“do you know her??”
“spill ??”
“who even are you”
Apple didn’t reply to any of them. Instead, she liked one comment.
“Wait… they have the same surname. Do you know Ashley Richards?”
From there, she changed platforms.
On Twitter, she began posting carefully constructed fragments.
“I really didn’t want to say this, but since people keep asking… yes, Ashley is my sister.”
“We haven’t spoken in years. That wasn’t my choice.”
“I’m worried about her. She’s always been drawn to powerful men. It scares me because I’ve seen how that ends.”
“Sometimes loving someone means telling the truth, even when it makes you the villain.”
“People forget I’ve survived things that would break most women. That changes how you see loyalty and trust.”
“I won’t expose private details. I’m not that kind of person.”
“I hope Ashley finds peace. I really do. I’ll always love her, even from a distance.” ??
On TikTok, she reposted videos instead of posting directly.
“10 Signs someone lacks empathy.”
“How to heal after narcissistic siblings.”
When people asked if the posts were about me, she never answered. But she quietly liked a few carefully chosen comments that fit her narrative.
“Ashley gives me bad vibes”
“she’s definitely using men”
“you deserve better family than that”
Any comment defending me vanished within minutes.
Tea channels picked it up fast.
“brEAKING: Influencer Apple Richards CONFIRMS She Is Sister of Sinclair Analyst Ashley Richards.”
Anonymous “sources” followed. Claims that we had fought over men before. That Apple had dated Nick Reynolds. That I had been interested in him. That I had ruined their relationship.
None of it mattered if it was true.
It mattered that it spread.
Within hours, Sinclair Enterprises’ social media pages were flooded again.
“who is ashley richards”
“is this your employee??”
“insiders say drama between sisters”
“messy analyst vibes”
I waited for Knox to summon me again. To scold me about my private life bleeding all over the company’s public image.
But the call never came. The comments were simply deleted. Fast. As if someone was monitoring the pages around the clock.
I leaned back in my chair, phone still in my hand. I didn’t panic. I didn’t post. I didn’t bother defending myself against her.
Apple thought she finally had the upper hand. What she had forgotten were the skeletons still sitting in the closet. If she believed the graduation party drama had been buried for good, she was in for a rude awakening.
She had more followers now. Millions.
Which meant she also had more haters.
The higher you climb, the harder the fall.
I texted Amy one sentence: “Post the graduation party video.”
She did more than that. Amy created a brand new TikTok account with no name tied to us and started posting.
The first video was simple.
Apple asking me to play the piano. Me explaining my hand injury. The video zoomed in on Apple’s face while I spoke. Every flicker of irritation. Every forced smile. Every crack of resentment was visible in high definition.
The comments exploded.
“wait why does she look MAD”
“how did she forget her sister's injury?”
“that micro-expression at 0:07 is wild”
“nah this energy is weird”
“did she try to set her sister up for humiliation??”
The second video followed an hour later.
Me at the piano. Singing Denier Danse.
It took off even faster.
“SHE CAN SING AND PLAY LIKE THAT???”
“excuse me??? why isn’t SHE famous”
“chills. literal chills.”
“is THIS is the sister Apple keeps shading??”
Then Amy dropped the third video. The kill shot.
The full exposé that had played at the graduation party.
Uncut. Uninterrupted. All six minutes.
And this time there was no Marissa to pull the cord.
The voice notes, messages, the lies, staircase footage, the manipulation.
And at the very end, something new. Something that had never reached the room that night.
Messages where Apple asked a classmate about party drugs, the kind that made people forget, whether someone could still function in bed and if he would remember anything afterward.
It went nuclear.
Within minutes, the comment section was unmanageable.
“OMG WE NEED A TEN PART “WHO THE HELL IS MY SISTER” EXPOSE”
“SIX MINUTES OF PURE MALICE”
“this is textbook manipulation”
“how did people defend her for YEARS”
“this isn’t drama, this is psychological abuse”
Within the hour the duets began appearing. Breakdowns. Stitch reactions. Lawyers weighing in. Therapists explaining coercive behavior.
Apple’s name started trending, but not in the way she wanted.
That evening my phone rang from an unknown number.
I almost didn’t answer. But something told me to.
“ASHLEY!”
Apple’s voice exploded through the speaker, raw and hysterical.
That was fast.
“What do you want?” I asked calmly.
My tone only made her worse.
“I want to see you. Right now!”
“No,” I said, already moving to hang up.
“Fine!” she shrieked. “Then you better hide forever. But you can say goodbye to all of your mothers items.”
My hand stilled. “What are you talking about?”
“I took Dad’s storage unit key. The one with your Mom’s things,” she went on, breathless and wild. “The stuff he couldn’t throw away. Letters. Jewelry. Her clothes. I have it.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“If you don’t meet me,” she said, her voice lowering, sharpening, “I will burn it all. Every last piece of her.”
Rage surged up my spine. Using my dead mother as leverage crossed a line she could never uncross.
“Don’t you dare!”
“Oh, why wouldn’t I?” she laughed. “I already bought three barrels of gasoline. If you don’t show up, I’ll take it straight to the unit. I’m a mental patient, remember? Even if I burn it down, they won’t lock me up. I’ll just have to pay damages.”
“Where are you?” I said tightly. “I’ll come now.”
“A café on Willow and Grant. One hour.Ashley. Alone.”
The line went dead.