The smell hit her first. It was a suffocating mixture of industrial bleach, stale sweat, and human despair.
Dorothea was shoved through the heavy metal doors of the Rikers Island intake center. The noise was deafening-women screaming, guards barking orders, metal gates slamming shut.
"Strip," a female guard ordered, pointing to a cold tile floor in a small, windowless room.
Dorothea's fingers shook as she peeled off the ruined Dior dress. She stood naked, shivering violently under the harsh fluorescent lights, while the guard conducted a humiliating, invasive search.
They took everything. They even pulled the cheap, silver ring off her finger-a birthday gift from her mother when she was sixteen.
They tossed her a scratchy, bright orange jumpsuit. It smelled like chemicals and old body odor.
"Move, 926," the guard barked, pushing her shoulder.
Her name was gone. She was just a number now.
She was marched down a long, concrete corridor and shoved into a crowded holding cell. The heavy iron bars slammed shut behind her, the lock engaging with a loud, final clack.
Ten pairs of eyes snapped toward her. The cell went dead silent. They looked at her the way starving dogs look at a fresh piece of meat.
Dorothea kept her head down, walking toward an empty patch of concrete in the corner.
A foot shot out. Dorothea tripped, slamming hard onto the floor. Her knees scraped against the rough concrete, tearing the skin. She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood, refusing to make a sound.
Heavy boots stepped into her line of sight.
Dorothea looked up. A massive woman with a thick neck and arms covered in faded prison tattoos stood over her. Rhonda Koslowski. She ran this block.
Rhonda slowly crouched down. She jammed the toe of her boot under Dorothea's chin, forcing her head up.
"Fresh meat," Rhonda sneered, her breath smelling like rotting teeth. "Heard you used to be a little rich bitch on the outside."
Dorothea stared at the wall, keeping her mouth shut. Any word would be used against her.
Rhonda's eyes narrowed. "You deaf? Or do you think we're too dirty to talk to?"
Rhonda flicked her fingers.
Two women instantly grabbed Dorothea by the hair and the back of her jumpsuit. They dragged her across the floor, her boots kicking uselessly, straight toward the open, stainless-steel toilet in the back of the cell.
Panic exploded in Dorothea's chest. She thrashed wildly, but they were too strong.
A hand grabbed the back of her neck and slammed her face down into the bowl.
Freezing, filthy water rushed up her nose and into her mouth. She gagged, her lungs screaming for air. She kicked her legs, her hands clawing desperately at the concrete floor, tearing her fingernails.
Just as her vision started to go black, they yanked her up by the hair.
Dorothea collapsed onto the wet floor, coughing violently, vomiting up the foul water. Her chest heaved, her whole body trembling in shock.
Rhonda squatted down next to her. She reached out and patted Dorothea's wet, tangled hair. Her voice dropped to a sickeningly sweet whisper.
"Don't take it personal, princess," Rhonda murmured right into her ear. "Someone paid a lot of money to make sure you get special treatment in here."
Dorothea's body went completely rigid.
"He said," Rhonda continued, her voice dripping with malice, "to make sure every single day is pure hell. By the way... his name is Hendrix."
Alfredo.
The name was a serrated knife twisting directly into her heart.
He didn't just want her locked away. He wanted her tortured. He had used his endless wealth to reach inside the prison walls and turn this place into his own private slaughterhouse.
The last tiny, microscopic shred of hope Dorothea had left for humanity-for him-evaporated.
She stopped coughing. She stopped shaking. She lay on the wet concrete, staring blankly at the rusted pipes under the sink. Something inside her chest physically snapped. The Dorothea Fowler who loved Alfredo Hendrix was dead.
