Read the first three chapters of Sloane Archer Gets What She Deserves!

Chapter 1 - Sloane

The champagne was a mistake. The first two glasses were survival — you don't get through your cousin's wedding sober when your mother keeps making comments about how wonderful it is that someone in this family has their life together. The third was because I'd just watched my boyfriend of six months disappear behind the winery building with one of the bridesmaids, and when you see something like that, you have two choices. You either cry or you drink. I chose drink. The fourth was while I was waiting for them to come back, trying to decide whether I was going to make a scene or be dignified about it. They took their time. The fifth was when I'd stopped caring about being dignified.

That was two hours ago. Maybe three, I'm not entirely sure. Time works differently when you've just screamed at a man in front of three hundred people.

The I-5 is dead at this hour. Just me and the occasional truck and a road that goes on forever. I have the top down because the night air is warm and it keeps me awake. The Central Valley stretches out flat and dark on both sides and it smells like dust and manure.

I shouldn't be driving but I'm fine. I'm a good driver and the road is empty. I'll be home in three and a half hours, maybe less if I push it, and then I can wash this night off me and forget I ever went to Napa.

God, I should have listened. Every single person in my life warned me about Tyler. My sister said he was a walking red flag. My best friend said he had the moral compass of a timeshare salesman. Even my father, who never comments on anything that doesn't involve a balance sheet, took me aside at Christmas and said, "Sloane, I'm not sure about this one." And I told all of them that they didn't know him like I did. That he was different with me.

I press harder on the accelerator and the engine responds. This car is one of the few things in my life that has never let me down. A yellow Porsche 718 Boxster. Convertible. My father bought it for my twenty-third birthday, which he missed because he was in Singapore. It's a guilt car, but I've never held that against it.

The speedometer creeps past ninety and I ease off slightly. The smooth highway has given way to something rougher, and the headlights pick up cracks and patches in the asphalt. I passed through Coalinga a while back. Or maybe I went around it, I'm not sure. I've never paid attention to the Central Valley before. It's the part you fly over on your way to San Francisco, or the blur outside the window when you're scrolling on your phone and someone else is driving.

There's a sign on the right side of the road, green and reflective.

Welcome to Duster. Population 1,947

Despite my mood, I laugh. Duster. Who names a town Duster? Who lives in a town called Duster? I try to picture it — a main street with a gas station and a church and probably a diner where everybody knows everybody and nothing ever happens. Where Friday night is a big deal because someone got a new truck. The kind of place I would rather die than end up in.

The road narrows and there are no streetlights now, just my headlights cutting a path through the dark. Fields on one side, a farm on the other.

I reach for my phone on the passenger seat, curious to see if Tyler has had the decency to at least send me an apology. He hasn't. He's probably in bed with the bridesmaid by now, telling her the same things he told me. You're different. I've never felt this way. You make me want to be better. The complete Tyler Ashworth starter pack.

The pothole comes out of nowhere and my right front tire hits it so hard that the whole car lurches. The steering wheel yanks to the side and I grab it with both hands but I'm overcorrecting, pulling too far left, and then I'm off the road completely and there's a fence in the headlights, coming at me fast. I slam on the brakes but it's too late. The impact is loud and jarring as the airbag explodes in my face and everything goes white.

For a moment, I don't move. My ears are ringing. There's powder on my face from the airbag, my nose hurts, and I can taste blood. I'm shaking, breathing hard.

I'm not hurt, I think. I check — hands, arms, face, neck. Everything moves. Only a nosebleed. I take off my seatbelt and push the airbag aside. There's a strange noise.

I've driven through a fence and into the side of a wooden building. Some sort of shed or outbuilding. The left side of it is smashed open where my car went through, and the headlight — only one of them is still working — illuminates splintered wood and scattered debris.

And then the noises grow louder.

Snuffling, grunting. Shapes appear in the gap I've made —low, moving — escaping through the broken wall. They snort as they go, and it takes me several seconds to understand what I'm looking at.

Pigs. I've just released an entire building full of pigs.

They're trotting across the dirt in front of my car, some heading for the farmhouse, others fanning out into the night. A big one stops right in front of my hood and looks at me before waddling off.

A security light snaps on, flooding the area with white light. And then another light comes on in the house at the end of the long driveway.

Fuck. Someone's woken up.

My heart is hammering. Someone is about to see me, and I've been drinking, and this is — this is very, very bad.

I try the engine. The car still works. It moves when I put it in reverse, slowly, scraping against something, and I pull back from the building and turn the wheel while the one remaining headlight sweeps across the damage.

It's bad. The whole side of the outbuilding is caved in. The fence is gone — just posts and splinters and a gap wide enough for livestock to walk through. Which they are doing, right now, freely and enthusiastically.

The front door opens and a figure steps out.

The right thing to do is to get out and say, I'm so sorry, I hit a pothole, I lost control. Are the animals okay? Let me help fix this. Take responsibility. But I already have a DUI to my name and I can't risk losing my license again.

Struggling to think straight, I put the car in drive. The Porsche limps back onto the road and I drive. This night was already the worst night of my life and I've just made it so much worse.

Miles pass on the dark road and I'm driving much slower now. Finally, my pulse starts to come down. Nobody saw my face and whoever came out of that house couldn't have seen my license plate from such a distance. I'll find out whose property it was and send them a check tomorrow. Money always fixes things.

A police car comes from the opposite direction. I see it approaching and grip the wheel tighter. My whole body goes rigid.

Please don't stop. Just keep driving. It passes me, and I exhale.

Then the brake lights come on.

In my mirror I watch the patrol car slow, stop, and make a U-turn. Of course. I'm driving through the middle of nowhere at one in the morning with one headlight.

The blue and red lights come on, and the siren gives a single short whoop. My stomach drops so fast I think I might be sick. I pull over and the police car pulls up behind me, the headlights blinding in my mirrors.

A door opens. Boots on gravel. A flashlight beam sweeps across my car and the officer appears at my window. He's middle-aged with a round face and a neatly trimmed mustache. The flashlight beam moves from the damage to me.

"Evening, ma'am. Looks like you've had some trouble tonight. Are you hurt?"

"Hello, officer. I hit a pothole," I say in a shaky voice. "The road was — I hit a pothole. A big one." I touch my nose. "But I'm fine. Just a little nosebleed."

He nods, then shines the flashlight along the front of the car. "You're missing a headlight there. Can't have you driving around like that — it's not safe, and it's not legal either."

"Of course. I'll get it fixed first thing in the morning, I promise."

"I appreciate that, ma'am, but that's some serious damage for a pothole." He moves the flashlight beam back to my face. "Have you been drinking tonight?"

For one wild, desperate second, I think about saying no and smiling and hoping he'll believe me and let me go.

"I had a glass at a wedding," I lie. "Just one, earlier this evening. Hours ago."

"I see." He holds out his hand. "License and registration, please."

I dig through the glovebox, find the registration, and pass it over with my license. He carries them back to the patrol car. The wait is unbearable. When he comes back, he hands them through the window.

"Says here you have a prior DUI, Ms. Archer. I'm going to ask you to step out of the vehicle, please."

My legs are unsteady when I slide out and stand.

"I need you to take a breathalyzer test," he says, holding out the device. I look at it and I think about my high-profile parents, Tyler Ashworth, the pigs scattering into the darkness, and the figure on the porch. If only I could turn back time.

I blow.

The officer reads the number. He doesn't show it to me and he doesn't have to. I can see it on his face — the slight shift, the confirmation of what he already knew.

"Ma'am, I'm placing you under arrest for driving under the influence. You have the right to remain silent."

The rest comes in fragments. My rights. Cold metal against my wrists. The click of handcuffs. The back seat of the patrol car. My Porsche sitting on the side of the road, broken and empty.

I'm fucked. Well and truly fucked.

Chapter 2 - Maggie

I'm sitting in the back row of the courtroom because I don't want to be noticed. There are reporters near the front and I have no intention of becoming part of the Princess Pigpen news cycle. I just want to see Sloane Archer's face when the judge sentences her.

People v. Archer. Just another name on the docket. But behind that name is a woman who plowed through my fence drunk at one in the morning and left my animals to wander onto the road. She's lucky no pigs got physically hurt.

I found Dolly on the highway. That's the part that makes me most furious. Dolly, who's eleven years old and half blind and was rescued from a factory farm where she spent the first eight years of her life in a crate so small she couldn't turn around. Dolly, who took two years to trust me enough to let me touch her ears. She was standing in the middle of the road in the dark, confused and frightened, and if a truck had come around that bend, she'd be dead.

Sloane smashed through their home and drove away, and my security camera caught all of it. I handed the footage to the police and thought that was that, but then the journalists came asking, and within days the video was everywhere. Suddenly the whole world had an opinion about the socialite who got the nickname 'Princess Pigpen,' but nobody asked whether the animals were okay.

A door opens at the side of the courtroom and she walks in.

She's wearing a navy dress and heels, with dark hair pulled back. She looks like she's on her way to brunch at a place that charges twenty-eight dollars for eggs. I'd never even heard of her until she drove into my pig barn but then I don't read gossip columns.

Her lawyer guides her to the defense table. Sloane sits, folds her hands in her lap, and stares straight ahead.

"All rise."

The judge is a lean Black man with reading glasses and a calm energy. Judge Howard Coleman. He sits, we sit, and the proceedings begin.

The first part is procedural. Sloane pleads no contest to the DUI and the hit and run. Her lawyer does most of the talking — "accepts full responsibility" and "deeply remorseful" and "an isolated incident that does not reflect the character of my client."

Accepts full responsibility. That's rich, considering she denied having anything to do with my pig barn until the police showed her my security footage. Then it was full responsibility and deep remorse and whatever else the lawyer told her to say. It wasn't an isolated incident either. She has a prior DUI from five years ago.

Then we get to sentencing.

"Ms. Archer," the judge says, and she stands. "You've pleaded no contest to one count of driving under the influence, your second offense within ten years, and one count of hit and run causing property damage."

She nods. "Yes, Your Honor."

"The court orders restitution in the amount of twenty thousand dollars to Dawson's Sanctuary for property repairs."

I watch her shoulders drop. Just slightly, just a fraction, but I see it. Relief. She can write a check and walk away. Twenty thousand dollars is nothing to her. It's a purse, or a weekend away. She'll pay it the way I'd pay for a bag of feed and never think about it again.

This is what justice looks like for people like her. A fine. A story she'll tell at dinner parties one day — remember when I crashed into that pig farm?

"However," the judge says, "I'm not finished."

Sloane stiffens.

"Ms. Archer, this is your second DUI in five years. The first time, you received a fine and probation. You completed your program and your license was reinstated. The court trusted that you had learned from that experience." He takes off his glasses. Puts them back on. "Clearly, you did not."

"A hit and run is not a mistake," he continues. "It's a choice. You chose to drive while intoxicated. You chose to flee the scene. You left damaged property and escaped livestock on a public road where they could have been killed or caused a serious accident. The fact that no one — human or animal — was harmed is a matter of luck, not judgment."

Sloane looks down at her lap and he clears his throat.

"I'm aware that for defendants with your resources, a fine is not a consequence. It's a cost of doing business and I don't intend for this to be a cost of doing business."

Sloane's lawyer leans in to whisper something. The judge doesn't wait for him.

"In addition to the restitution already ordered, I'm sentencing you to ninety-six hours in county jail and two months of community service."

Now Sloane reacts. Her chin lifts, her lips part, and the color drains from her face. Two months. That's better.

"Your community service will be served at Dawson's Sanctuary," the judge says. "The property you damaged. You will report daily and perform whatever duties are assigned to you by the sanctuary's operator. You will begin immediately after completing your jail sentence."

Her lawyer is on his feet. "Your Honor, my client—"

"Your client drove intoxicated, destroyed property, endangered animals, and fled the scene. She can spend two months helping to repair the damage. Additionally, her driver's license is suspended effective immediately." He picks up his gavel. "We're adjourned."

The gavel comes down and for a moment I feel satisfied. Justice. Not just a check. She's going to jail and she's losing her license. And then she's—Wait. She's coming to me.

This woman who destroyed my property and drove away without a backward glance — is going to be at my sanctuary every day for two months. In my space. Around my animals. Under my supervision.

I didn't ask for this and I certainly don't have time to babysit someone who has never done a day's work in her life. I have fourteen pigs, eleven goats, twenty-three chickens, two horses, and a one-eyed donkey. Adding Sloane Archer to that roster is not going to improve my mornings.

I stand and head for the door before the reporters spot me. Outside, the sun is blinding, and I put on my sunglasses as I walk toward the parking lot and try to think practically.

Two months. Fine. If she's going to be there, she's going to work hard. Mucking out the pig barn. Hauling feed in hundred-degree heat. Scrubbing water troughs. Fixing my fence until her manicure is a distant memory.

And the logistics bring their own consolation. She'll have to stay at the motel in town — the run-down place on Main Street. And the county bus only comes through twice a day — 6:45 in the morning and 5:15 in the afternoon. Miss it and you walk thirty minutes in the kind of heat that makes the road shimmer.

I picture Sloane Archer at the bus stop at six forty-five in the morning, melting in her designer clothes, and a small smile crosses my face as I get in my truck. It's a long drive back to Duster and I'm going to spend my time wisely, making a list of every miserable job I can think of.

Chapter 3 – Sloane

The county jail is in Bakersfield. Low, beige, institutional, surrounded by chain-link and razor wire. There's an American flag on a pole that hangs limp in the heat. I get out of the taxi and stare at it.

It's only ninety-six hours. That's what I keep telling myself. People spend four days on juice cleanses.

I'm wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt because my lawyer told me not to wear anything I cared about. They'll take your clothes, he said. You'll get them back when you leave.

There's a front desk with a deputy behind it and a waiting area with plastic chairs and an empty water cooler. The deputy is a woman in her fifties with reading glasses on a chain. She looks at me.

"Name?"

"Sloane Archer."

She types something. Looks at the screen. Types something else. I stand there with my arms at my sides and try to look like a person who is handling this well. She prints out forms. So many forms. I sign them one after another without reading them. At this point, who cares? I'm here.

"Take a seat," she says. "Someone will come get you."

I take a seat. There's a poster on the wall about inmates' rights. There's another one about tuberculosis. There's a vending machine in the corner that has a handwritten "OUT OF ORDER" sign taped to it. I focus on the vending machine as it's the most relatable thing in the room. Neither of us is functioning.

I wait and wait and wait, and then a door opens and a female deputy appears. She's tall, broad-shouldered, with her hair pulled back tight. She holds a clipboard.

"Archer?"

I stand. She doesn't introduce herself, just says, "Follow me," and I follow her through a door that locks behind us. We walk down a long corridor with a gray floor and fluorescent lights. The first room is intake processing. Another desk, another deputy, another round of questions. Name. Date of birth. Address. Social security number. Emergency contact. I give my father's number.

"Any medications?"

"No."

"Any medical conditions?"

"No."

"Any history of self-harm or suicidal thoughts?"

"No."

"Are you pregnant?"

"No."

"Any gang affiliations?"

"I— no. Of course not. Look, I'm Sloane Archer. My father is Richard Arch—"

"Ma'am." The deputy looks up from her form for the first time. "I don't care who your father is. Nobody here cares who your father is. Gang affiliations. Yes or no."

"No."

"Any enemies currently incarcerated in this facility?"

"Not yet," I say, but she doesn't smile.

The deputy puts a clear plastic bag on the counter and tells me to empty my pockets and remove all jewelry. I put my phone and wallet in the bag and somehow being without my phone makes me feel more helpless than the fact that I'm being locked up.

The medical screening is next, in a small room that smells like antiseptic. A nurse takes my blood pressure, then puts a thermometer in my mouth. She shines a light in my eyes and asks me most of the same questions the deputy already asked, which makes me wonder if they're checking for consistency or if the left hand genuinely doesn't know what the right hand is doing.

"Are you withdrawing from any substances?"

"No."

"When was your last alcoholic drink?"

I have to think about this. I haven't drunk since the crash. Not because of any moral revelation but because every time I've looked at a glass of wine I've seen pigs.

"About five weeks ago," I say.

Then the deputy with the clipboard is back and we're walking again — another corridor, another set of locked doors, another series of turns that I'm already losing track of — and we end up in a room that has nothing in it except a bench and a bin.

"Strip," she says.

I stare at her.

"All of it. Clothes in the bin."

I've undressed in front of other people before. Fitting rooms, gym changing areas, that charity fashion show I did where the backstage area was essentially a tent and everyone could see everyone. But those situations involve choice.

I strip until I'm completely naked in a concrete room while a stranger checks places no stranger should check. I leave my body for the duration. I go somewhere else — a beach in the Maldives — and when I come back she's handing me a pile of gray fabric to put on.

Another corridor, another locked door, and then a large open room. Bunk beds along both walls — maybe sixteen. A metal table with benches bolted to the floor. A television mounted high on the wall, playing a talk show with the sound barely on. A payphone. And at the far end, two toilets behind half-walls that come up to chest height. No doors. Just walls that stop where a door should start, as if they ran out of budget mid-construction.

There are about a dozen women here. Some lying on bunks, some sitting at the table, one on the payphone. A couple of them glance over when I walk in and my stomach clenches. These are not women I would encounter in my normal life and I have no idea how to read them — who's safe, who isn't, what the rules are. I make sure to avoid eye contact.

The deputy points to a bottom bunk near the middle. "That's yours."

There's a thin mattress with a folded sheet and a blanket stacked on top. No pillow. She turns and leaves without another word.

I sit on the bunk. The mattress crinkles — it's covered in some kind of vinyl under the sheet that makes a noise every time I move.

"No way."

The voice comes from the bunk diagonally across from mine. A thin woman is sitting cross-legged on her mattress, holding a magazine — one of those celebrity gossip ones. She's looking at the magazine, then at me, then at the magazine again. Her eyes go wide.

"No fucking way. Holy fuck!" she says, holding up the magazine. There's a glamour shot of me on the page next to the security camera still. The headline: PRINCESS PIGPEN: HEIRESS SLOANE ARCHER'S DUI DISASTER. "It's you."

I say nothing. Maybe if I say nothing she'll lose interest.

"Ladies!" she yells. She grins, showing a few teeth that are mostly suggestions. "Ladies, look. It's Princess Pigpen!"

Heads turn. The woman on the bunk next to mine puts down her book. Someone at the table looks up from a card game.

"Let me see that," says the woman next to me. She jumps off her bunk, takes the magazine and studies the photo. "Yep. That's her. You look different without the makeup though."

"What'd they give you?" the thin woman asks. She can't keep still — her knee is bouncing, her fingers are picking at the skin around her nails, and her eyes keep darting around the room like she's tracking something no one else can see. When I don't answer, she raises her voice. "Hey! Don't be rude. I asked you a question."

My instinct is to ignore her. But there's no escaping her and she's looking at me in a way that makes it clear this is not optional.

"Ninety-six hours and two months community service at the place I crashed into."

This gets a reaction. Raised eyebrows. A low whistle from someone.

"The pig farm?" the thin woman says.

"Yeah."

"Two months shoveling pig shit." The thin woman shakes her head slowly, almost admiringly, like the judge has earned her respect. "That a Porsche you crashed?"

"Yes."

"How much does a car like that cost?"

I don't answer.

"Fifty grand? A hundred?" She tilts her head. "More?"

"I don't really want to—"

"What do you do for a living?"

"I work in— I'm in—" I stop. The honest answer is not much. I manage my social media accounts and I'm technically on the board of a few charities my mother signed me up for, but I can't even name all of them. "I'm between things."

She laughs. "Between things. Must be nice being between things in a Porsche." She looks around the room. "Anyone else here between things?"

Nobody answers, and the thin woman turns back to me.

"Yeah," she says. "That's what I thought."

Did you like this sample? Sloane Archer Gets What She Deserves will be out on June 12th and is now available for pre-order here.