Chapter 2: Sent to Prison
842 Words
"Miss Lane, Mr. Carter has formally charged you with premeditated murder. Please cooperate with our investigation."
Emily Lane’s head was foggy from exhaustion and fever. Last night’s vigil, kneeling in the rain, had left her soaked and drained. But the moment she saw the police officers in front of her, everything suddenly became crystal clear.
Ethan Carter wasn’t satisfied with just making her kneel all night.
No. He had been waiting—waiting for Lily Morgan’s soul to finally rest in peace before sending Emily to prison.
Her husband in name, the man she had loved for so long, was truly... ruthless.
Maybe she had been wrong all along.
Ethan never cared about the truth. He just despised her. Because it was her hand that had given Lily the car keys, no matter whether it was intentional or not. Lily had died, and in his eyes, Emily was meant to die alongside her.
Because, in his heart, there was only Lily.
That was the truth she should have realized from the start, but she had spent years burying it deep inside. She had tricked herself into believing that even the coldest of hearts could be warmed eventually. But she had forgotten that the heart is never neutral—it’s biased.
“Ma’am,” Sean, Ethan’s assistant, looked at her pale face, hesitating. “Your knees…”
She shook her head, biting her lip as she stood up. “I’m fine.”
If this was what Ethan wanted, then she would give it to him.
With a loud "click," the handcuffs locked around her wrists. Emily stumbled forward, the weight of the cuffs dragging her down. She no longer felt the physical pain—only the heavy metal on her wrists reminded her of the absurd reality she was living in.
All she had done was hand over a set of car keys. She didn’t kill anyone. But no one believed her.
"The defendant is sentenced to three years in prison, effective immediately."
It was over. Even during her trial and sentencing, Ethan Carter never showed up.
He knew what she wanted. He knew she wanted to see him. And yet, he denied her that, too.
Three years of marriage, and in the end, it all amounted to a foregone conclusion—a verdict already sealed.
Emily curled up in a corner of the prison, staring down at her infected knees. They had swollen and festered, untreated. Her voice was completely gone from the fever, and her wounds had grown maggots that made her sick to her stomach.
Her entire body reeked of decay, but every time she thought of Ethan, she couldn’t help but cry.
Ethan Carter…
She still missed him, even now.
Even after all the cruelty he had shown her, her feelings for him had become as much a part of her as her own blood, inseparable from her very being.
To take them away would be like tearing her apart, bone from flesh.
“Who’s crying? It’s driving me nuts!” On her first official day in prison, someone heard her quiet sobs and approached, clearly annoyed. The woman glanced at the name tag on Emily’s uniform and her expression immediately turned mocking. “You’re Emily Lane?”
“Ah, so this is the one everyone’s been talking about. I heard you’re worth a thousand bucks for a slap and ten grand for a kick, huh?”
What did that mean?
Was Ethan still not done with her?
She had thought being thrown into prison without proper medical care was the worst of it. But now she realized—he had something far crueler planned for her.
Emily looked up in shock, her eyes wide with fear.
No. No, she had to survive this. As long as she made it through, she would get her chance to explain everything to him. Someday, he would believe her!
But before she could even stand, a group of four women surrounded her, blocking her escape.
They saw her as nothing more than a money-making opportunity, a way to line their pockets with cash. And so, they began to beat her, punching and kicking her with savage glee.
The next day, the women left the cell, returning later with their hands full of cash.
Rumor had it, they even caught a glimpse of the elusive Ethan Carter himself.
Meanwhile, Emily was scrubbing their laundry in front of a rusty sink. They had decided to nurse her knee wounds just enough so they could keep using her. After all, if she was in better shape, they could hit her harder and make more money. Her voice, though—no one cared about her damaged throat.
As long as her outward appearance was decent, they could continue adding new bruises and scars over the old ones, prolonging her suffering.
Over time, the scars began to cover her once-soft skin, ugly, jagged reminders of her torment—like twisted centipedes crawling over her body.
But those scars weren’t the only things growing.
Her belly was, too.
- Writer
