Scars Of Betrayal: The Heiress's Revenge

The heavy metallic clang of the prison gate sliding shut behind Alice Stafford vibrated through the soles of her cheap canvas shoes.

It was a sound she had dreamt of for one thousand and ninety-five days, but now that it was real, it didn't feel like freedom.

The late October wind in Danbury had teeth.

It bit through the thin fabric of her gray issued sweatshirt, raising goosebumps on skin that hadn't seen direct sunlight in three years.

Alice raised a hand to shield her eyes from the glare.

Her vision blurred for a second, adjusting to the lack of bars, before focusing on the car parked fifty yards down the access road.

A black Maybach.

It sat there like a sleek, predatory beast, out of place against the cracked pavement and the gray concrete walls of the correctional facility.

Her heart did a painful flip in her chest.

Benny.

He came.

Despite everything-the silence, the missed visits, the rumors Martha had hinted at in her sporadic letters-he came.

She tightened her grip on the clear plastic bag in her hand. It contained her life: three unmailed letters addressed to him, a stick of lip balm, the clothes she was arrested in, and a thick stack of letters bound with a rubber band, their edges softened from countless readings.

She waited for the car door to open, for the man who had once vowed to love her forever to come rushing out and embrace her.

The car remained motionless.

As she got closer, the tinted rear window rolled down halfway. Just enough to reveal a profile she had memorized in the dark.

Benito Vinson. He was wearing sunglasses, staring intently at his phone screen. He didn't look up. He didn't look for her.

Her steps faltered. A knot of anxiety tightened in her stomach, replacing the hope that had been keeping her upright.

The driver's door opened.

A man she didn't recognize stepped out. He wore white gloves.

He didn't smile. He didn't offer to take her bag. He simply opened the rear door and stood back, his face a mask of professional indifference, as if he were disposing of hazardous waste rather than picking up his employer's fiancée.

She ducked her head and climbed into the backseat.

The atmosphere inside hit her like a physical blow. The air was thick with the scent of rich leather and an expensive, spicy cologne that she used to find comforting. Now, mixed with the stale air of the prison that clung to her clothes, it was nauseating.

She settled into the seat, the plush leather foreign against her body. She turned to him.

"Benny," she whispered. Her voice was raspy, unused to speaking at a normal volume. "I'm back."

Benito didn't turn immediately. He finished typing something on his phone, hit send, and then, slowly, rotated his head toward her.

He slid the sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, the harsh blue light of his phone screen reflecting in his cold eyes.

His eyes.

They used to look at her with a warmth that made her feel like the only person in the room.

Now, they swept over her with a clinical, detached scrutiny. He looked at her stringy hair, her pale face, her rough, red hands resting on her knees.

His lip curled. A micro-expression of distaste that vanished as quickly as it appeared, but she saw it.

It cut deeper than any shank in the prison yard.

He didn't say hello. He didn't reach for her.

Instead, he opened the center console and pulled out a small bottle of hand sanitizer.

She watched, frozen, as he squeezed a dollop of clear gel onto his palm. He rubbed his hands together methodically, interlacing his fingers, scrubbing the backs of his hands, the sharp scent of alcohol filling the small space between them.

He was sanitizing himself. Because she was near him.

Her breath hitched in her throat. She felt the blood drain from her face.

"Put your seatbelt on," Benito said. His voice was smooth, cool, devoid of any emotion other than mild annoyance. "Don't let the paparazzi get a shot of you looking like... that."

Her hands trembled as she reached for the belt. The click of the buckle sounded like a gunshot in the silence.

The car accelerated smoothly, pulling away from the curb. Her body was pressed back against the seat, and a dull ache flared in her lower back, a reminder of the concrete bunk she had slept on last night.

Benito pressed a button, and the privacy partition slid up, sealing them off from the driver.

"Estelle has a charity auction today," he said, looking out the window at the passing trees. "I have to get back to support her."

The name made her stomach turn. Estelle. Her sister. The one who had cried and begged her to take the fall.

"I just got out of prison, Benito," she said, her voice gaining a fraction of strength. "And you're rushing back to her?"

He turned to look at her fully then, his expression hardening. "Estelle has suffered enough because of your mess, Alice. She's been holding the family reputation together while you were... away. You should be grateful."

She stared at him, unable to process the words. "Grateful? I spent three years in a cage for this family. For your future."

Benito let out a short, cold laugh. "That was your choice. And look at you now. You're a felon, Alice. A liability. What exactly do you think you bring to the table anymore?"

The words were a slap. Physical and sharp.

She looked at the man sitting next to her. The tailored suit, the manicured nails, the perfect hair. He was a stranger. The Benny she loved was dead.

She closed her eyes, digging her fingernails into her palms until she felt the sting of skin breaking.

She wouldn't cry. She had learned that lesson the hard way.

Tears were blood in the water.

The car sped up, merging onto the highway, carrying her away from one prison and straight toward another.