Chapter 1 LAST MEAL

Liana's POV

Prisoners on my level don't get beef stew.

We get congealing porridge. Bread. Potatoes. Rice.

So when the tray slid through my door and I saw a bowl of thick, dark stew with actual meat floating in it. I didn't touch it.

Something was wrong.

The slot clanged shut with the usual metallic echo. The steam rising from the bowl carried a faint, oily warmth.

Prison smells like rust, old sweat, and mold. I learned that the moment I got thrown in here.

The fluorescent bulb above my bunk has been flickering for weeks. It doesn't bother me anymore.

Each stutter of light sent faint shadows dancing across the pitted concrete walls, like insects skittering just out of reach. The air felt thick, always slightly damp, clinging to my skin and making every breath taste faintly of iron.

I lie flat on my back, my hands laced behind my head, staring at the ceiling tile. I count the brown stains again.

One thousand, two hundred and twenty-three.

Twelve years.

That was my sentence. Twelve years for leaking company secrets I didn't even know existed.

My first month here was excruciating. Then I got a cellmate. She was transferred two weeks later. I've been in isolation ever since.

By my sixth month, I stopped flinching when the guards slammed metal batons against the bars just to remind us who we were.

By my twelfth, I stopped trying to prove myself.

Because innocence doesn't protect you here. Neither does silence.

They said I was a corporate spy.

Me. Liana Bennett. All I knew was how to analyze data and create spreadsheets. I color-coded my grocery lists. I cried once because my plant died while I was on a business trip.

They said I leaked confidential Blaise Corps data to a rival company. Sold access logs. Manipulated servers. Took bribes.

The evidence was clean. Too clean.

My access ID showed downloads at 2:14 a.m. from a secure terminal.

An IP address traced directly to my home router.

An anonymous tip, written in perfect corporate language, flagged me as a high-risk internal actor.

I didn't even know how to access half the systems they accused me of breaching.

It didn't matter.

The judge barely looked at me when he read the sentence.

Twelve years.

My mother fainted in the gallery. My lawyer avoided my eyes. My colleagues from Blaise Corps didn't show up at all.

I stopped counting days after that.

The cell is smaller than my old bathroom. Concrete bed. Stainless steel toilet. A thin slit of a window that lets in light and nothing else.

They said the isolation was for my protection.

Funny how protection feels exactly like punishment.

The thin blanket scratched against my arms like sandpaper, never quite warm enough. My scalp itched from the cheap shampoo that I had been using.

I sit on the edge of the bed now, hands folded, nails bitten. My dinner tray rests on the metal shelf by the door. A plastic cup of water that tastes faintly chemical. A plastic spoon.

And the stew.

I stare at it.

Don't be paranoid, Liana, I tell myself. You've been paranoid for months.

Still, I don't eat.

Time passes. Minutes. Maybe hours.

My stomach growls.

With a sigh, I pick up the spoon and stir the stew. A thin oily sheen rises to the surface.

The first bite is good.

Really good.

Same with the second. The third. I lose count.

Then my throat tightens.

I freeze.

The warmth in my mouth turned sour, metallic, coating my tongue like liquid rust. A slow heat bloomed in my chest spreading outward in burning waves. My esophagus felt lined with thorns, each swallow scraped raw fire downward.

No.

My chest seizes, like something has closed around my lungs. I stagger back, the tray slipping from my hands. The spoon clatters to the floor. My knees give out and I hit the wall hard.

Sweat beaded instantly cold on my forehead, trickling into my eyes with a sting. My fingers tingled, then numbed at the tips. The room tilted; the flickering bulb pulsed brighter, searing white streaks across my vision.

Air won't come.

My heart slams against my ribs. Too fast. Too hard.

Poison.

I had been poisoned. The realization of that was terrifying.

I crawl toward the door, fingers scraping uselessly against concrete. My vision blurs at the edges. Black spots bloom.

My nails caught on rough grit, tearing a thin line of skin. Each breath came shallower, raspier, like sucking air through wet cloth. A deep, grinding ache settled in my stomach, twisting tighter with every heartbeat.

"Help," I try to say.

Nothing comes out but a wet rasp.

Someone wanted me gone. Permanently.

As my body convulses, one thought cuts through the pain.

I didn't deserve this.

I wasn't careless. I wasn't weak. I trusted the wrong people, but that shouldn't have been a death sentence.

My legs jerked once, twice, muscles locking in painful spasms. Heat flooded my face; my cheeks burned as if pressed to a hot iron. Tears spilled, hot and fast, carving tracks through the dirt on my skin.

My fingers curl against the floor. Tears spill, hot and fast.

If I had one more chance, If I could go back.

I would burn it all down.

I would find who did this. I would reveal the truth.

The ceiling spins. The flicker of the bulb grows louder. My heartbeat stutters, then slows, each beat heavier than the last.

A strange calm settles over me.

I wish I could save myself.

Then everything goes black.

-----------------------------------------------------

I gasp.

Air slams into my lungs so violently it hurts. I bolt upright, hands clutching my chest, heart racing like I've been running for my life.

I'm not on concrete.

I'm on my bed.

My bed.

A soft mattress. Familiar dip near the edge. Cotton sheets twisted around my legs. Morning light spills through the blinds, painting my one-bedroom flat in pale gold.

The sheets carried the faint, comforting scent of my own laundry detergent, lavender and clean cotton instead of the prison's bleach.

My skin felt warm, alive, no longer clammy with drying sweat.

For a moment, am I dead? This is death, right?

Or am I hallucinating?

Then I hear it.

Traffic. A bus honking down the street. Someone arguing on the phone. A distant siren.

London.

I fumble for my phone on the nightstand, nearly knocking over the lamp.

06:57 a.m.

My hands shake as I look around. The cracked mirror. The overworked kettle. My blazer draped over the chair exactly where I left it yesterday.

Yesterday.

The screen lights up again.

October 4th.

My breath catches.

No.

October 4th was one month before everything went wrong.

One month before the leaks.

One month before the arrest.

One month before my life ended in a concrete box.

My reflection stares back at me from the dark screen. Unmarked. Alive.

I'm alive.

Not a dream.

Not a hallucination.

I was given a second chance.

Fear, rage, and relief crash into me all at once.

Someone tried to have me killed.

They failed.

This time, I won't wait to be saved.

This time, I'm coming for the truth.

Even if it costs me everything.