Stanley POV
The guard’s voice was harsh and unpleasant as they announced the “Morgan Visitation.”
Visitation. My mother, probably. More hissed strategies, more reminders of my failure. I shuffled out, the orange jumpsuit an endless humiliation. I sat in the hard plastic chair, preparing my mask of arrogant control for whoever it was that was coming.
Then the door opened.
And the world stopped.
It was her. Jennifer.
She looked… different. Not the broken woman I’d last seen in my foyer, nor the glamorous socialite in the engagement photos. She was dressed simply, in black and white, like a business executive. Her face was calm, her posture straight. She moved with a stillness, a certainty, that was utterly alien. The burning fire of rage in my gut, my constant companion, guttered and
