After prison i chnaged

Chapter2

I was on the verge of dozing off when the sound of an engine drifted in from downstairs.

My eyes fluttered open.

I recognized the familiar rumble of an engine.

Devonte was home.

Usually, whenever he went to see Josephine, he never returned that night. He would spend hours with her, leaving me alone in the mansion.

I frowned and climbed out of bed, walking toward the window. Pulling the curtains apart slightly, I peered through the gap.

His Rolls-Royce Cullinan was parked in the driveway.

The driver's door opened, and Devonte stepped out. He straightened his jacket before walking around to the passenger side and opening the door.

Then he bent down and lifted someone into his arms.

Josephine.

He carried her out of the car like a bride, one arm beneath her knees and the other supporting her back.

My breath caught in my throat.

He brought her here?

For a moment, I couldn't move. I simply stared through the curtains, watching him carry the woman he had always preferred over me into the house. The front door opened, interrupting my thoughts. A moment later, I heard footsteps followed by the low murmur of voices.

I cracked my bedroom door open and creep toward the staircase.

I stopped when I heard Josephine speak.

“Devonte, do you think this is a good idea?”

Her voice was soft, almost hesitant.

“Now that Evelyn is back, I don't think I can continue coming here.”

I froze.

Continue coming here?

So that was why Devonte had never visited me in prison. While I counted the days, clinging to the foolish hope that my husband would show up at least once, he had been busy spending his time with Josephine.

I had imagined countless reasons for his absence. Perhaps he was angry. Perhaps he needed time to process what had happened. Perhaps he simply couldn't bear to see me behind bars.

How stupid of me.

“No.” Devonte's voice cut through my thoughts, cold and certain.

“She loves me more than herself. She wouldn't do anything to you if she knew it would upset me.”

I pressed my back against the wall.

His words hurt, but what hurt even more was knowing he wasn't entirely wrong.

I had loved Devonte more than I had loved myself. I had placed him on a pedestal.

Even when he chose Josephine, I had found excuses for him.

I was done being the lovestruck fool who accepted scraps of affection and called them love.

“But what if she asks you for a divorce?” Josephine asked.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then Devonte let out a short, arrogant laugh.

“She can't. She can't live without me. Remember?”

My stomach twisted.

He sounded so sure of himself. So convinced that no matter what he did, I would remain exactly where he had left me.

I closed my eyes, and memories flooded my mind.

I was only eight when my parents sent me to live with my uncle. Our family business was failing, and they claimed they could no longer afford to raise both children.

My cousins made sure I never forgot that I didn't belong there.

“Your parents abandoned you,” they would say, laughing whenever I tried to defend myself.

They treated me like a servant, making me do chores while they enjoyed their lives. I learned to swallow my tears because crying only gave them another reason to mock me.

Five years later, I returned home, hoping things would finally be different.

Instead, I discovered that Josephine had taken possession of my bedroom. My photographs, books, and childhood belongings had disappeared. It was as though the five years I had spent away had erased every trace of my existence.

I tried to ignore it.

Then, the following day, Josephine deliberately ruined her clothes and burst into tears before our father.

“Father, Evelyn ruined all my clothes!”

I barely had time to explain before I was dragged to the cold attic and locked inside for the entire night.

By morning, I had developed a fever.

That was when I finally understood that no amount of kindness would make my family love me the way they loved Josephine.

I stopped trying.

I rode motorcycles, fought with street kids, and committed petty crimes. I became reckless and hotheaded, determined to hurt the world before it could hurt me again.

Then I met Devonte.

He was the heir to the Hayes family, one of the wealthiest families in town.

I still remembered the day he caught me inspecting his car. I had bent down to examine the engine when his voice startled me.

“What are you doing?”

I jerked upright and hit my head against the car.

“Ouch!” I rubbed my forehead. “I was just checking out the engine.”

He pulled out a napkin and offered it to me.

“You're into this stuff?”

“Yes,” I answered cautiously. I had always been fascinated by machines and engines.

“Wow. That's a first.”

He studied me with genuine surprise, but there was no mockery in his expression.

“Then do it,” he said. “A girl can be an engineer too.”

Those simple words had meant everything to me. For the first time, someone had encouraged me instead of telling me what I couldn't do.

I thought I had finally found someone who would always stand by me.

Then came Christmas Day.

A firework malfunctioned and exploded dangerously close to the crowd. People screamed and scattered, but I froze, unable to react quickly enough.

Devonte rushed toward me and pulled me out of the way just before another burst of sparks scattered across the ground.

“You should be careful,” he warned, his voice shaky.

I had looked into his eyes and believed I had found the love of my life.

How foolish I had been to mistake a few beautiful moments for a lifetime of devotion.

Devonte had made it clear countless times that I would never come first in his heart.

Two years in prison had taught me something I should have learned long ago: being angry and hotheaded would get me nowhere. If I wanted to survive, I had to remain calm, think clearly, and stop allowing other people's actions to control me.

Prison had stripped me of many things, but it had also taught me how to endure humiliation without letting it destroy me.

Devonte believed I couldn't live without him.

He was wrong.

I straightened and quietly walked back to my bedroom. I had heard enough of their conversation, and I had no intention of wasting another second listening to them.

Once inside, I closed the door and leaned against it.

I picked up my phone and scrolled through my contacts until I found Benita, my lawyer.

It was late, but I called anyway.

She answered on the first ring.

I slipped the ring off and placed it on the bedside table.

“Can you prepare divorce papers for me?”