Stanley POV
The loud metallic sound of the cell door was my daily symphony, a sound that never failed to send a fresh jolt of impotent rage through my system. This wasn't my life. This was a temporary administrative error, a glitch my lawyers and my money were in the process of correcting.
I was Stanley Morgan, a billionaire, a titan. Not inmate #487321. I was led to the visitation room, my usual expression of anger firmly in place. Another pointless meeting with my lawyers, no doubt, to discuss appeals that went nowhere.
When the guard grunted, "Morgan, visitation," I straightened my orange jumpsuit as if it were a Brioni suit.
I strode into the visitation room, already preparing my usual opening line.
It was my mother.
But not the mother I knew. Not the flawlessly dressed society
