Chapter 2
Anna's POV
What I hadn't expected was this—
Kyle dodged my hand without a moment's hesitation, the way you'd sidestep a puddle on the sidewalk.
His gaze slid past me and settled on Mia, tender and full of concern as he moved toward her.
"Kyle." I refused to give up and called out to him again, pouring the last of my strength into it.
His steps faltered. Reluctance was written plainly across his face as he forced himself to stop.
I rushed to speak. "Kyle, it was Mia. Her earring—that emerald earring—it was right there at the scene. She dropped it. She thought no one saw, but I did. Kyle, please. Go and look for that earring…"
The words came out fast and slurred, because I knew this was my last chance.
"What earring?" His face was calm, his voice flat and unmoved. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
My mind went blank.
No, no, no—
"…What?"
"There was no earring at the scene. I checked carefully. There was nothing."
How could that be? The earring had fallen right at the foot of the vase, exactly where Winnie had gone over. I'd seen it clearly.
He was lying.
I understood it all at once.
He had gone to the scene, found the earring, and hidden it away. For her.
"Kyle." My heart shattered; the pain made it hard to breathe. "Kyle, look at me, why are you doing this…"
He didn't look at me, but he didn't leave either. Not yet, at least. He crouched down in front of me, and when he finally spoke, his voice was calm and steady, as if he'd rehearsed it.
"Anna, I think…" He paused, weighing each word. "I think some time in prison will do you good. You can use it to reflect on everything you've done."
I stared at him. My mouth hung open, but nothing came out.
"Reflect hard," he went on. "Reflect on why you've become so vicious, on how you've treated the people who love you." He glanced at Mia—just for an instant, but I caught it. "Maybe when you get out, you'll be different."
He was done with me. He walked over to Mia, laid a hand on her shoulder, and murmured, "It's all right. She can't hurt you anymore."
Mia leaned into him, trembling faintly.
I stared at his back. Those shoulders I had once fallen asleep against. Those hands that had once held mine. Now they rested gently on her shoulders, protective, as if she were the one who needed saving.
I understood then. He had made his choice. Between me and Mia, he had chosen Mia.
I should have seen it coming. For months, while I wasn't paying attention, he had been drawing closer to her—the dinners I wasn't invited to, the conversations that stopped the moment I walked into a room, the way he turned his phone screen face-down whenever I came near. He'd started saying things like "Mia mentioned" and "Mia thinks," as though her opinion were the weather forecast he checked every morning.
The truth was, he'd already belonged to her long before tonight. Tonight only made it official.
Ronan's men dragged me toward the door. I had no strength left to fight.
The prison door shut behind me with a sound like the final word on everything.
The first day, my food tray was empty. I watched the guard handing out meals walk right past me. I said, "Excuse me, I don't think you gave me my food—"
"Orders from above. There's nothing for you."
At first it was just deliberate torment. A basin of filthy water, greasy and full of debris, was tipped over my cot again and again, so my bedding was always damp and reeking. During yard time, someone would always come up fast behind me and slam into my shoulder, grinding a hard sole down onto the top of my foot until the bones cracked.
At night, a few of the women dragged me off my bunk and pinned me in a corner. Fists rained down on my body, my back, my chest. A guard passed by the door. He heard me scream, and he did nothing. He'd been paid.
The third day. The fourth. The fifth. A week. Two weeks.
A month. I was in there a month.
Bruises layered over bruises, fresh purple blooming beneath the old yellow. They took turns beating me, different women, different methods. Fists one week, a mop handle the next. And they always struck the same places: ribs, kidneys, the backs of my thighs—places where the marks wouldn't show on my face.
By the fourth week my body was breaking down. I was worn down to bone, running a fever that came and went, cold and heat trading places.
I thought of my mother. The last thing she'd ever said to me was, "Anna, take care of yourself."
Mom, I'm sorry.
I thought I would die in there.
The thirty-first day. The iron door swung open, and I flinched back against the wall, both arms flung up over my head.
But no one hit me.
"Get up." The guard was impatient. "Someone's here for you."
Someone had come for me? The words made no sense. Two guards seized my arms and hauled me out.
Outside, a black sedan idled at the curb. The door opened, and I saw a familiar face.
Leo. My father.
They put me in the back seat. My stepmother sat on the other side, as far from me as she could manage. She'd sprayed on perfume, trying to cover the stench coming off me.
My heart was pounding. They'd come. They had actually come. Had they found something? Had someone uncovered the truth—Mia's emerald earring at the scene, proof that she was the one who pushed Winnie, not me?
I was innocent. And in the end, they'd finally realized it.
"Dad… did you find out? I'm innocent—"
"Innocent?" My stepmother let out a short, sharp laugh. "Anna, you pushed Winnie down the stairs. There are witnesses. There's a signed statement. The verdict has already come down. Where exactly is this innocence you keep talking about?"
"It wasn't me—"
"Enough." Leo's voice came from the front seat. "Even now, after all this, you're still lying!"
"I'm not lying! Dad, please—look at the security footage from that day. The camera on the second floor—it will show—"
"The footage is gone," my stepmother said, not even looking up. "Corrupted. A system malfunction."
A chill went through me. The footage wasn't corrupted. Someone had deleted it. And I knew exactly who.
I opened my mouth to speak again, and my stepmother cut me off.
"You have no idea how lucky you are," she sneered. "Someone actually wants you. God only knows why."
"The Kingsley family reached out to the Grays. They're willing to post your bail. Not only that—they want to sign a business partnership with the Grays as well."
"But there's a condition."
"You marry the third young master of the Kingsley family."
Kingsley.
The name struck my chest like a sledgehammer.
The Kingsley family—the very pinnacle of power in this city. Their business empire controlled half the financial district. Their political reach occupied seats that ordinary people couldn't hope to touch in a lifetime. Next to them, the Grays didn't even rate a seat at the table.
But within that family, there was one person no one ever spoke of. The Kingsleys' stain, a man never mentioned in public. If you brought him up, people would change the subject at once, so quickly it was as if you'd said something unspeakable.
He was the mysterious third young master of the Kingsley family—the one who, at ten years old, had nearly burned to death in a fire, and who had lived in seclusion ever since.
