Chapter 5

　　Sitting in jail was nothing but uncomfortable and depressing. My back ached from lying on the hard bed, and my eyes stung because I couldn't get any sleep; the other prisoners made so much noise, it drove me an inch closer to losing my mind.

　　The darkness in here reminded me of how alone I was in the world. How the peaceful life I'd built for myself in Forest Hills had gone down the drain—all because I'd been foolish enough to want to be loved again.

　　"I'm so foolish," I muttered, placing my palms over my face. I sat on the cold floor, my back against the wall.

　　I exhaled, trying to calm myself before the tears returned.

　　The one small mercy was that I was alone in this cell. I didn't want to meet the other prisoners. These women were brutes who knew nothing but violence and yelling. Being stuck in a cell with any one of them would've been the end of me.

　　Not that I minded being ended.

　　A glint in the corner of my eye caught my attention. I turned and saw a broken tile. Reaching for it, I picked it up and examined it. It was triangular, with sharp, jagged edges—one side as thin as a blade. Whoever was in charge of cleaning this place wasn't doing a great job.

　　The tile gleamed faintly under the dim corridor light. My breaths trembled.

　　I turned away from the bars, lifted my left hand, and brought the sharp edge of the tile to my wrist. My breaths quickened as I pressed it down, holding it firmly, eyes shut. All that was left now was to pull—and it would all be over.

　　I'd slowly black out, bleed out, and eventually die.

　　My teeth clenched. My hand trembled. Tears streamed silently down my cheeks. Just as I began to drag the tile—

　　CLANK.

　　The sound of the cell door sliding open echoed through the room. I froze.

　　"You have a visitor," a male officer called out.

　　Panicked, I tossed the tile between the bed and the wall and quickly got to my feet.

　　"Umm… Who is it?" I asked, turning around and wiping my face with shaky fingers.

　　"You'll find out soon enough," the officer replied.

　　He paused at the door and squinted at me. "Are you… are you okay?"

　　"Why does everyone keep asking that? Do I look like I'm fucking okay?" I screamed in my head.

　　I looked away and muttered, "I'm fine… Let's go."

　　Stepping out of the cell felt like a breath of fresh air. The corridor was cooler, the lights brighter. Even though this white room still looked like something out of a horror movie, I felt a little calmer.

　　At least, until I saw who my visitor was.

　　My eyes locked on Harold's. I turned around instantly to face the officer. "Please take me back to my cell."

　　"No, Angel. Please—we need to talk," Harold said, stepping forward.

　　"There's nothing to talk about, Harold!" I snapped, whirling to face him.

　　He stopped, hurt flickering in his eyes as he saw the rage in mine.

　　"You left me in there with your family, my family, my ex-husband, and a bunch of complete strangers—every one of them hating me, cursing me, humiliating me. And where were you? In your limo, making out with some blond chick!"

　　Harold's eyes tensed. "What?"

　　"Don't bother denying it. You've broken my heart all over again, Harold. And I never want to see you again."

　　"Angel, wait." He grabbed my left hand. His grip was trembling—just like mine. He was scared that I actually meant it.

　　"I'm sorry I left you in there," he said softly. "I don't know what came over me. I was hurt that you lied about your family, and I just needed some air to clear my head. Mary came to me outside, and in her attempt to comfort me… she kissed me."

　　His voice cracked with guilt.

　　"I swear to you, there's nothing between us. Mary's my assistant. A friend, nothing more. I would never hurt you intentionally."

　　He sounded sincere. Regret poured out of him like water from a broken pipe—but regret alone couldn't fix my shattered life.

　　"What do you want from me, Harold?" I asked, more tired than angry. "I killed someone. I'm going to spend the rest of my life in prison. Associating with me—a whore, a wench, a murderer—isn't a good look for your precious businesses."

　　"I don't care about that," he said, stepping closer. "I want to help you. I have connections. People who can clean up your image with a snap of their fingers. They can get you out of here, Angel. They can give you your life back—"

　　"Harold," I interrupted, turning to face him. "I don't want a good life. I want a good death."

　　I walked past him and the officer, heading for the door. "Go back to Mary—or whatever her name is. She seems like a nice girl."

　　The officer followed, opened the door, and we left the room together.

　　Harold just stood there, speechless.

　　My biggest mistake that day was not listening to Harold. My life could've been so much easier if I'd just forgiven him and accepted his help. But out of pain, anger—and, if I'm being honest, pride and stubbornness—I made everything worse.

　　"Where are we going? The cells are the other way," I said as we walked down a darker hallway. The officer followed close behind me, moving steadily, almost too perfectly—like it was all rehearsed.

　　After a long walk, he stopped in front of a door.

　　"You have another visitor," he said. "An important one."

　　I blinked. Another visitor? I didn't have friends. My family were all scumbags. I'd just seen Harold… So who else could it be?

　　He opened the door, and I stepped into another small, white room. The door clicked shut behind me.

　　A man sat in a chair with his back to me, looking at something on his phone.

　　Then he raised his head, spun his chair around, and faced me.

　　My eyes widened.

　　"You… you're…"

　　"Harold's younger brother—Theo Washington," he said, standing and adjusting his suit.

　　"What the fuck are you doing here?" I asked.

　　"Well," he chuckled, lowering his eyes. Then he looked back at me and smiled. "I'm here to make you a proposal. So, I'd like you to sit down, Miss Angel… and let's talk business."

　　"Business?" I echoed.

　　He gestured to the chair across the table.