I Thought the Worst Pain Was Being Poisoned by My Husband... Until I Saw My Own Sister Standing Behind Him Wearing My Robe

In the women's holding facility in Westchester County, the atmosphere was vastly different from the glittering lights of Manhattan.

The walls were dull gray, the air smelled of industrial disinfectant and stale floor polish, and the only sound was the distant hum of a ventilation fan.

Celeste Vance sat on a stainless-steel bench in interview room B, her orange jumpsuit wrinkled, her blonde hair hanging limp and unwashed around her face. Gone were the designer silk robes, the expensive perfumes, and the condescending smiles she used to wear while walking down the Whitaker family staircases.

The heavy steel door unlocked with a loud click and swung open.

A guard stepped aside, and Maren walked into the room.

Celeste flinched, pulling her legs up against her chest as if trying to shrink into the cinderblock wall. She couldn't meet Maren’s eyes. For a long, suffocating minute, neither woman spoke.

"You look tired, Celeste," Maren said calmly, pulling out the metal chair opposite the table and sitting down with deliberate grace.

Celeste let out a ragged, hysterical laugh, burying her face in her trembling hands. "Are you here to gloat? Did you bring the cameras? Do you want the whole world to see what a pathetic mess I am?"

"No," Maren replied, her tone completely devoid of malice, which somehow made it infinitely more terrifying. "I didn't bring any cameras. I came here because I wanted to ask you one simple question."

Celeste peeked through her fingers, her red, swollen eyes wide with fear. "What... what question?"

"When you stood on that staircase holding a glass of wine, watching me struggle to breathe while Reed took away my EpiPens..." Maren leaned forward, resting her elbows on the metal table, her blue eyes locking onto her sister's. "Did you ever, even for a single second, remember that we shared a bedroom? That when our parents died, I was the one who paid your tuition, bailed you out of your debt, and gave you a home when no one else would?"

Celeste’s lips quivered. A fresh wave of tears spilled down her cheeks. "Reed told me... he told me you were going to cut us off. He said you discovered our bank transfers and were going to leave us with nothing. He said it was self-defense."

"Self-defense," Maren repeated, the word tasting like ash on her tongue. "Stealing my life insurance policy and watching me suffocate on the hardwood floor was self-defense?"

"I'm sorry!" Celeste screamed, throwing herself forward against the table, sobbing uncontrollably. "Maren, please! Talk to the prosecutor! Tell them I was manipulated! Tell them Reed forced me into it!"

Maren stood up slowly. She smoothed the front of her emerald-green dress, looking down at her younger sister with a mixture of profound pity and absolute finality.

"Reed is looking at forty years without parole, Celeste," Maren said quietly. "And you are looking at twenty. Your trial starts in three weeks. My legal team has ensured that every single wire transfer, every fraudulent document, and every text message between you and Reed will be entered into public record."

Celeste stared up at her in absolute horror. "You're not going to help me?"

"I already helped you," Maren said, turning toward the heavy steel door. "I gave you a life you didn't earn. And you chose to try and murder me for it."