The cold metal of the handcuffs bit into my wrists as the officers dragged me through the police station. My mind was still reeling, unable to process how quickly my life had imploded. Just hours ago, I'd been dreaming of nursery colors and baby names. Now I was being treated like a criminal.
"Emma Vance," the booking officer read mechanically, "charged with corporate espionage and theft of proprietary information."
"That's not true," I whispered, my voice hoarse from crying. "I didn't do anything."
The female officer gave me a look of practiced indifference. "Save it for the judge."
They took my fingerprints, my photograph, and then led me to a holding cell. The heavy door clanged shut behind me, the sound echoing through my bones.
"You'll be transferred to the women's correctional facility tomorrow," a guard informed me before walking away.
I sank onto the hard bench, my hand instinctively moving to my stomach. "It's going to be okay," I whispered to my unborn child. "Somehow, this will all work out."
But deep down, I knew that was a lie.
---
The women's correctional facility was a nightmare of concrete and steel. After processing—where they took my clothes, my dignity, and issued me a shapeless orange jumpsuit—they led me to a large room with rows of bunk beds.
"New fish," announced the guard, shoving me forward.
The room fell silent. Dozens of eyes turned to assess me—some curious, others predatory.
"Fresh meat," a tall woman with tattooed arms smirked, rising from her bunk.
I clutched my thin mattress to my chest, looking for an empty bunk. A guard pointed to one in the corner.
"That's you, Vance."
As I made my way across the room, I noticed a group of women exchanging glances. One of them—a heavyset woman with a scar across her face—smiled at me in a way that made my skin crawl.
"Look at those soft hands," she said loudly. "Never done a day's work in her life."
"I heard she stole millions," another added. "Corporate bitch."
I reached my bunk and sat down, trying to make myself invisible. But it was too late for that.
"I'm Emma," I offered tentatively to the woman in the bunk next to mine.
She turned away without a word.
Later that evening, as women returned from whatever activities they'd been engaged in, the room filled with a tense energy. I was sitting on my bunk, trying to figure out how to contact my father, when Scarface approached.
"You got anything good?" she asked, holding out her hand.
"I—I don't know what you mean," I stammered.
She laughed, the sound harsh and grating. "Everyone comes in with something. Candy, cigarettes, maybe something stronger. You don't expect to just walk in here empty-handed, do you?"
Before I could respond, she grabbed my arm and twisted it painfully behind my back.
"Nothing in your pockets," she said, patting me down roughly. "Must be hiding something good."
"I don't have anything," I insisted, fear rising in my throat.
The lights flickered once, twice—and then went out completely. Emergency lights cast everything in an eerie red glow.
"Now," Scarface whispered, her breath hot against my ear. "Now we can have some fun."
What happened next came in flashes of pain and terror. Multiple hands grabbed me, dragging me to the floor. Someone stuffed a rag into my mouth while others held me down.
"Rachel sends her regards," Scarface hissed as the first blow landed on my ribs.
Rachel. Of course.
The beating was methodical, almost choreographed. They knew exactly how to cause maximum pain without leaving obvious bruises where the guards would see them.
"Stop," I tried to scream through the gag, but it came out as a muffled whimper.
By the time they were finished, I was curled on the concrete floor, tasting blood and trying not to pass out from the pain.
"Clean this up," someone ordered, and a bucket of ice-cold water splashed over me.
When morning came, I could barely move. Every breath sent dagger
