His Love, Her Prison, Their Son

For five years, my husband, Courtland Johnson, had me locked in a rehabilitation center, telling the world I was a murderer who had killed my own stepsister.

On the day of my release, he was waiting. The first thing he did was swerve his car directly at me, trying to run me down before I even left the curb.

My punishment, it turned out, was only just beginning. Back at the mansion I once called home, he locked me in a dog kennel. He forced me to kowtow to my "dead" sister's portrait until my head bled onto the marble floor. He made me drink a potion to ensure my "tainted bloodline" would end with me.

He even tried to give me to a lecherous business partner for the night, a "lesson" for my defiance.

But the cruelest truth was yet to come. My stepsister, Kinsley, was alive. My five years of hell were all part of her sick game. And when my little brother Aspen, my only reason for living, witnessed my humiliation, she had him thrown down a flight of stone steps.

My husband watched him die and did nothing.

Dying from my injuries and a broken heart, I threw myself from a hospital window, my last thought a vow of revenge.

I opened my eyes again. I was back on the day of my release. The warden's voice was flat. "Your husband has arranged it. He's waiting."

This time, I would be the one waiting. To drag him, and everyone who wronged me, straight to hell.

Chapter 1

The rehabilitation center was a sterile white box on the edge of New York City, a place designed to erase people. For five years, it had been my world. The walls were bare, the air smelled of disinfectant and despair, and my only view was a sliver of gray sky.

I looked down at my reflection in the polished floor. A gaunt face stared back, with hollow eyes and pale skin. The clothes I wore, a loose-fitting uniform, hung on my bony frame. They were a constant reminder that I was no longer Anastasia Quinn, the celebrated darling of New York's elite. I was a number, a patient, a murderer.

Five years ago, my husband, Courtland Johnson, had me committed. He did it after I was accused of killing my stepsister, Kinsley Alexander. He told the world it was an act of mercy, a chance for his broken wife to atone for her terrible crime.

I kneeled, my bare knees pressing into the cold, hard floor. It was a familiar pain. In front of me was a framed photograph of Kinsley, smiling. This was my daily ritual, my forced penance. I had to kneel before her for two hours every morning and two hours every night.

One thousand eight hundred and twenty-five days. I had counted each one.

A sharp rap on the door broke the silence. The warden entered, her face impassive.

"Get up, Quinn. You're being released."

My head snapped up. Release? The word felt foreign, impossible.

"Your husband has arranged it. He's waiting."

Five years. Five years in this living hell, orchestrated by the man who was supposed to love me. The man everyone saw as a devout, compassionate saint for not divorcing the woman who murdered his beloved sister-in-law. They didn't see the truth. They didn't know Courtland.

He wasn't a saint. He was the devil who had meticulously crafted my purgatory.

I walked out of the center, blinking against the unfamiliar sun. I expected to see a friendly face, a family member, anyone. But the curb was empty. My friends had abandoned me. My family had disowned me. I was utterly alone.

The warden handed me a small box. "Mr. Johnson's instructions. He said you are to continue your penance at home. This must be with you at all times."

Inside was the same framed photograph of Kinsley. A cold dread washed over me. The prison was changing, but the sentence remained the same.

A black car pulled up. The Johnson family driver, a man who used to greet me with a warm smile, now looked at me with open contempt as he held the door. The ride back to the mansion I once called home was silent. The house was just as I remembered it, opulent and cold. But now, I was not its mistress. I was its prisoner.

The maids and butler lined up, their whispers like the hissing of snakes. They looked at me not with pity, but with scorn.

"She's finally out."

"Look at her. She looks like a ghost."

"The master is too kind. A woman like that should have rotted in jail."

I ignored them, my mind clinging to a single thread of hope. A promise I made to my dying grandmother years ago.

"Ana," she had whispered, her hand frail in mine, "no matter what happens, you must protect your brother. Aspen is all you have left."

Aspen. My little brother. He was the only reason I had endured the last five years. He was my only reason to keep living now.

I clutched the photograph to my chest and walked toward the grand staircase, my steps unsteady. I had to see him.

Suddenly, the screech of tires echoed from the driveway behind me. I turned just in time to see a silver sports car swerve directly toward me, its engine roaring. I froze, my body refusing to move. It was going to hit me.

At the last second, I threw myself to the side, tumbling onto the manicured lawn. The car screeched to a halt inches from where I had been standing. My knees were scraped raw, and my heart hammered against my ribs. I instinctively checked the photograph in my hands. The glass wasn't cracked. The thought sent a chill down my spine-my first instinct was to protect the symbol of my torment.

The car door opened.

Courtland Johnson stepped out, his tall frame clad in a perfectly tailored suit. He looked the same as he did five years ago: impossibly handsome, with an air of cold piety that captivated everyone he met. His eyes, the color of a winter sky, found mine. There was no concern in them, no shock. Only a flat, chilling indifference.

It was him. He had tried to run me over.

My breath hitched. The fear I had lived with for five years coiled in my stomach, suffocating me. This man was not just my tormentor; he was the great love of my life.

I remembered the girl I used to be-vibrant, a little wild, chasing after the elusive and cold Courtland Johnson. I had changed everything about myself for him. I softened my edges, learned his quiet hobbies, molded myself into the perfect, demure wife he seemed to want.

For a short time, I thought I had succeeded. Our wedding day was the happiest of my life. I had finally won the heart of the man I adored.

Then Kinsley died, and my world shattered.

Now, standing before him, bruised and trembling, I was that girl no more.

I scrambled to my feet, my voice a raw whisper. "Courtland... I need to see Aspen."

He walked toward me, his gaze sweeping over my disheveled form with disgust. He stopped right in front of me, so close I could feel the cold radiating from him.

"You are in no position to make demands, Anastasia." His voice was low and smooth, the same voice that had once whispered words of love.

"Please," I begged, the single word tearing from my throat. "Just for a minute."

He didn't answer. Instead, he made a small, sharp gesture to the two large bodyguards who had emerged from the house.

"It seems five years of reflection haven't taught you humility," he said, his voice devoid of any emotion. "Your punishment is not over. It has only just begun."

The guards seized my arms. Their grip was like iron.

"Take her to the kennel," Courtland commanded, turning his back on me as if I were nothing more than a piece of trash to be disposed of.

The kennel. He was going to lock me in a dog cage.

Panic clawed at my throat. "No! Courtland, no! Please!"

They dragged me away, my pleas echoing unanswered in the vast, empty courtyard.