Elena had never sent that message.
She had never contacted her sister. Not once. Not in any way.
She had done nothing to betray me.
And yet... I had sentenced her to a lifetime behind bars.
Guilt hit harder than any blade, twisting deep in my gut, relentless.
I wanted to turn it inward, carve myself open until the agony matched what I’d done to her.
Images flooded my mind unbidden—Elena sitting on the thin, stained mattress, the gray walls pressing in so tightly it felt like they were breathing down her neck, shivering under a threadbare blanket, curling into herself as the cold seeped into her bones. Meals went uneaten or were barely enough to keep hunger at bay.
Abandoned. Betrayed. Scraping by on nothing but stubborn survival.
I had taken what little safety she had left and burned it to the ground.
I didn’t think. I didn’t hesitate.
“Release her,” I bellowed into the phone, my voice cracking as something feral clawed its way out of my chest. “Now. You hear me? Now.”
I sent everything—logs, timestamps, corroborated trails, proof of manipulation so airtight it could drown a judge in shame. I pulled strings so hard they threatened to snap. Prosecutors scrambled. Warrants were amended. Orders flew.
And then there was nothing to do but wait.
Now I stood outside Blackridge Correctional Facility, the wind cutting through my coat like knives as I paced the gravel lot.
My hands clenched and unclenched, knuckles wrapped in fresh bandages that were already seeping red. Nine months. Nine fucking months in a place designed to destroy people piece by piece.
Even a week in there could break someone.
What had I done to her?
The question hollowed me out. No amount of money, no empire, no groveling apology could ever erase what she’d endured. Would she even look at me without loathing? Would she scream? Spit in my face? Pray I died?
I deserved all of it.
The massive iron gates finally groaned open, the sound low and ancient, like the jaws of some prehistoric beast reluctantly releasing its prey.
Floodlights snapped on, bleaching the twilight, casting long, grotesque shadows across the razor wire.
A buzzer shrieked, sharp and final, and steam rose from the cold ground as the mechanism clanked to life.
And then—
There she was.
Elena.
My wife.
She stepped out slowly, clutching a small plastic bag of belongings like it was the only solid thing left in the world.
Her movements were cautious, almost tentative, as if she expected the ground to betray her.
She looked thinner. Smaller. Like something vital had been shaved away.
Her shoulders were drawn in, chin lowered—not broken, but guarded in a way that made my chest ache.
