Married To The Ruthless Disgraced Billionaire

The heavy iron door of Danbury Federal Correctional Institution slammed shut behind me. The sharp metallic clang vibrated through the soles of my ill-fitting shoes, traveling straight up my spine.

The harsh autumn sun hit my face, instantly blinding me. I threw my hand up to shield my eyes, a wave of intense vertigo making my stomach pitch.

"Move it," a guard barked.

He shoved a clear plastic bag of my personal belongings into my chest. The sharp, heat-sealed edge of the plastic sliced across the back of my hand. A thin line of blood welled up. The sting was sharp, but I bit down hard on my lower lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

I looked down through the cheap plastic. One outdated dress. A twenty-dollar bill. That was it. That was the sum total of my existence. A massive, suffocating weight dropped onto my chest, squeezing my lungs until I couldn't pull in a full breath.

I scanned the empty visitor parking lot. The asphalt was cracked and vacant. No sleek black town cars. No Schroeder family driver waiting with a polite nod.

Nothing.

The cold realization seeped into my bones, freezing me from the inside out. I was entirely, utterly abandoned.

A biting autumn wind whipped across the lot, slicing right through the thin fabric of my dress. I wrapped my arms tightly around my ribs, trying to hold my own body heat, but violent shivers wracked my frame.

I started walking. The Greyhound bus station was two miles away. With every step, the stiff leather of my old shoes ground into my heels. Blisters formed and popped, sending shooting, white-hot pain up my calves.

I pulled out my outdated cell phone, my fingers stiff and clumsy from the cold. I dialed the number of the woman I used to call my best friend. The screen lit up, casting a pathetic glow, before an automated voice informed me the number had been disconnected.

My thumb hovered over the keypad. I killed the screen. The last thread of my fantasy snapped.

A sleek silver sedan slowed down as it drove past me on the shoulder. The passenger window rolled down, and a woman in designer sunglasses peered out. I recognized her vaguely from the country club my family used to own. She pulled her phone out, snapping a quick photo of my pathetic, shivering state, a cruel, mocking smirk twisting her lips before the car sped off. The blatant humiliation cut deeper than the cold, a stark reminder that I was nothing but a spectacle to the world I once belonged to.

I stopped walking. I closed my eyes, took a ragged breath, and forced the burning sensation in my tear ducts to recede. Crying was a luxury I couldn't afford.

When I finally limped up to the ticket counter, the clerk took one look at my damp, ruined dress and my bruised face. His upper lip curled in obvious disgust. I lowered the