Chapter 2
Ethan's POV
The pristine marble floor gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights. I looked down at Lucy Owen, her elegant features twisted in desperation as she knelt before me, fingers clutching the hem of my suit. Teardrops darkened the expensive fabric.
"Please, Ethan," she begged, her voice barely above a whisper. "Just two hours. That's all I'm asking for. To say goodbye to my grandmother."
I felt my jaw tighten. The nerve of this woman. "Federal regulations aren't something you can bypass with money, Lucy. You know that."
She looked up, tears streaming down her face. "But you've done it before. Every time Ivy needed blood, you managed to get me temporary release." Her voice cracked. "My grandmother raised me after my parents died. She was all I had."
"That was different." The words came out sharp, clinical. "Ivy's medical needs are a legitimate reason for compassionate release. A funeral isn't."
"I'll do anything." Her fingers tightened on my suit. "I'll keep giving Ivy blood whenever she needs it. Please, just let me—"
"That's already your obligation." I cut her off coldly. "Or have you forgotten why Ivy she's in that wheelchair?"
Lucy flinched as if I'd struck her. Good. She needed the reminder.
"Please, Ethan," Lucy's voice brought me back to the present, her brown eyes sparked with tears. "Just two hours to say goodbye."
Something in Lucy's current desperate plea tugged at a corner of my heart.
For a moment, I almost wavered. Then I thought of Ivy, condemned to a wheelchair for life because of this woman's jealousy.
How fucking dare she hurt Ivy? She deserved it.
My voice turned to ice. "The answer is no, Lucy. Be grateful you only got one year."
Lucy's POV
I collapsed onto the cold cement floor of my cell, the fluorescent lights buzzing like angry wasps overhead. My arm still throbbed from the blood draw. Before my tears had even dried, I heard those familiar, threatening footsteps approaching.
Not them. Not again.
I struggled to get up, but familiar hands grabbed my hair from behind, yanking me upright.
"Look who's here," a raspy voice mocked in my ear. "Our little princess trying to escape again?"
It was them—the women who had been torturing me for months.
"Please," I choked out, "not today... they just took my blood..."
Five burly female inmates circled me like hungry wolves. Their leader, a woman with a face mapped in scars, grinned, revealing yellowed teeth, and slapped me hard. My ear immediately rang, warm liquid trickling from the corner of my mouth.
"Why?" I desperately demanded, tears blurring my vision. "What did I ever do to you? Why do you keep targeting me?"
"Because you're so special, princess," the leader sneered, punching me in the stomach, making me double over in pain. They were experts at this—always hitting where clothes would cover, leaving no visible marks.
This had been my daily reality for months. Not just beatings—they'd steal my food, soak my bedding, pour ice water on me while I slept. Sometimes, when other inmates were in the rec room, they'd lock me in the laundry room dryer until I nearly suffocated.
"Why are you doing this?" I shouted. "I don't even know any of you. I've never done anything to you!"
The woman with tattoos covering her arms gave me a contemptuous glance. "Who do you think you are? Married rich and now you think you're special?"
"Who put you up to this?" I glared at her.
The tattooed girl seemed about to say something, but the leader shot her a warning look.
"Keep your mouth shut," the leader warned her, then turned to me, danger flashing in her eyes. "You don't need to know that much, just that you pissed off the wrong person."
"Who did I piss off?" I asked, my mind racing. Who would hate me this much? Who had the power to arrange all this in prison?
"You're so stupid," the tattooed girl suddenly sneered, clearly unable to help herself. "Don't even know why you're in prison—"
The leader grabbed the girl's throat fiercely. "I said shut up!"
A thought hit me like lightning. My heart sank. Ivy Wilson.
"It's her," I said softly, understanding everything now.
The leader released the girl, narrowing her eyes at me, a cold smile playing on her lips. "Smart little bitch. But what good does guessing right do you? You think anyone would believe you?"
She bent down, her face inches from mine, her breath reeking of cigarettes. "You stepped into someone else's relationship, you pay the price." She smirked, "She said to show you what hell feels like."
She signaled to the others, and two immediately grabbed my arms, dragging me into a bathroom stall.
"No, please!" I struggled, terror washing over me.
Fists rained down on me like hailstones, each blow threatening to shatter my bones. I could hear my ribs cracking, pain exploding throughout my body. I wanted to scream, but a rough hand covered my mouth, reducing me to whimpers.
When they finally threw me back onto my bunk, I couldn't remember how I'd survived. Every inch of my body screamed in agony, my lips split, my eyes swollen nearly shut.
In the darkness, I wept silently. Someone, please save me. Anyone.
The fluorescent lights of the prison infirmary buzzed overhead as I lay on the narrow cot, my arm throbbing where they'd drawn blood. Eight hundred milliliters - far more than the safe limit. But when had my safety ever mattered to them?
It took two days before I could stand without the room spinning. On the third day, I dragged myself to the common room, only to freeze in the doorway.
The TV was playing Entertainment Tonight. "Wall Street's most eligible bachelor proves money is no object when it comes to love," the host gushed. "Storm Investment Group CEO Ethan Storm spared no expense for childhood sweetheart Ivy Wilson's birthday celebration, with estimates putting the party's cost at over $100 million."
The camera panned across the lavish ballroom of the Plaza Hotel. And there they were. Ivy in her wheelchair, looking ethereal in Valentino couture, her delicate features arranged in a perfect mask of gentle suffering. And Ethan... Ethan beside her, cutting her food into bite-sized pieces with the kind of tender attention he'd never shown me.
"So sweet," the host continued. "Sources say Mr. Storm has barely left Miss Wilson's side since the tragic accident that left her paralyzed last year."
My grandmother was being buried today. Ethan had promised to handle the arrangements when I begged him. Now I knew why he'd agreed so easily - he'd never intended to go.
The tears came silently, rolling down my cheeks as ten years of delusion finally cracked and shattered.
I loved Ethan Storm for a decade, watching him. He was the crown prince of Wall Street, while I was just a medical student from Boston, working three jobs to pay for my grandmother's mounting medical bills.
We were like parallel lines that should never have met. Then came the accident that changed everything.
I still remember the day that changed everything. My grandmother needed experimental cancer treatment that only Storm Family Hospital could provide. The Storm matriarch offered a deal: marry her comatose grandson, and my grandmother would receive free treatment. I agreed without hesitation.
One month later, Ethan woke up furious about our marriage. But when tests revealed my rare Rh null blood type, his anger turned to calculated interest. The divorce was never mentioned again - instead, I became Ivy's personal blood donor.
The heavy iron gates of the prison creaked shut behind me. I was free, finally. Heavy rain pelted against my face, soaking through the thin clothes that clung to my skin.
I stood there, watching cars rush past on the glistening road, spraying sheets of water. No one had come to pick me up - I hadn't really expected them to. Three bus transfers later, I finally reached our Central Park West apartment building, where the doorman eyed me warily.
Ethan was leaving just as I opened the door, briefcase in hand, typing rapidly on his phone. He barely glanced up.
"You're wet," he observed dispassionately.
I caught his sleeve, the fine wool smooth under my fingers. "Ethan," my voice was steady despite the cold seeping into my bones. "Let's get divorced."
He looked at me then, irritation flickering across his perfect features. "Take a shower and clear your head. You're not thinking straight."
The hot water of the bath did nothing to warm the ice in my chest. I turned on my phone for the first time in a year. No messages from him, of course.
However, a notification popped up about Ivy's latest Instagram post: a selfie with Ethan in what I recognized as her private hospital suite. He was peeling an apple, his expression soft with concentration. The caption read: "Thanks for the company."
I sank deeper into the water, letting it fill my ears until the world went silent. The image of Ethan tenderly peeling an apple for Ivy burned behind my closed eyelids.
Ten years of unrequited love, and all I had to show for it was a prison record and an unloving husband. Fucking mocking.
The water had gone cold by the time I got out. I studied my reflection in the steamy mirror, hardly recognizing the woman who stared back.
Heavy dark circles hung beneath my hollow brown eyes, like bruises against my ghostly pale skin. My dark chestnut hair was a tangled mess, clinging to my skull like wet seaweed.
Tears streaked down my face as I secretly resolved to never get involved with them again.
With trembling hands, I cut off all ties to Ivy's world. When I reached Ethan's contact, my finger froze.
Just then, my phone rang---Ethan.