Scars Of Betrayal: The Heiress's Revenge

The heavy metallic clang of the prison gate sliding shut behind Alice Stafford vibrated through the soles of her cheap canvas shoes.

It was a sound she had dreamt of for one thousand and ninety-five days, but now that it was real, it didn't feel like freedom.

The late October wind in Danbury had teeth.

It bit through the thin fabric of her gray issued sweatshirt, raising goosebumps on skin that hadn't seen direct sunlight in three years.

Alice raised a hand to shield her eyes from the glare.

Her vision blurred for a second, adjusting to the lack of bars, before focusing on the car parked fifty yards down the access road.

A black Maybach.

It sat there like a sleek, predatory beast, out of place against the cracked pavement and the gray concrete walls of the correctional facility.

Her heart did a painful flip in her chest.

Benny.

He came.

Despite everything-the silence, the missed visits, the rumors Martha had hinted at in her sporadic letters-he came.

She tightened her grip on the clear plastic bag in her hand. It contained her life: three unmailed letters addressed to him, a stick of lip balm, the clothes she was arrested in, and a thick stack of letters bound with a rubber band, their edges softened from countless readings.

She waited for the car door to open, for the man who had once vowed to love her forever to come rushing out and embrace her.

The car remained motionless.

As she got closer, the tinted rear window rolled down halfway. Just enough to reveal a profile she had memorized in the dark.

Benito Vinson. He was wearing sunglasses, staring intently at his phone screen. He didn't look up. He didn't look for her.

Her steps faltered. A knot of anxiety tightened in her stomach, replacing the hope that had been keeping her upright.

The driver's door opened.

A man she didn't recognize stepped out. He wore white gloves.

He didn't smile. He didn't offer to take her bag. He simply opened the rear door and stood back, his face a mask of professional indifference, as if he were disposing of hazardous waste rather than picking up his employer's fiancée.

She ducked her head and climbed into the backseat.

The atmosphere inside hit her like a physical blow. The air was thick with the scent of rich leather and an expensive, spicy cologne that she used to find comforting. Now, mixed with the stale air of the prison that clung to her clothes, it was nauseating.

She settled into the seat, the plush leather foreign against her body. She turned to him.

"Benny," she whispered. Her voice was raspy, unused to speaking at a normal volume. "I'm back."

Benito didn't turn immediately. He finished typing something on his phone, hit send, and then, slowly, rotated his head toward her.

He slid the sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, the harsh blue light of his phone screen reflecting in his cold