Chapter 8

The week in county jail was a descent into a new kind of hell. It wasn't the abstract cruelty of Hudson's mansion; it was raw, physical, and brutal.

I was thrown into a cell with a group of women whose eyes were as hard as the concrete floor.

The moment the door slammed shut, all eyes were on me. The largest one, a woman with a spiderweb tattoo on her neck, blocked my path.

"You know the rules, new girl?" she sneered.

I didn't understand. Before I could ask, a foot kicked out, sweeping my legs from under me. I crashed to the floor, my head hitting the concrete with a sickening thud.

"On your knees," she roared. "Kiss the floor. Show some respect."

A burning humiliation washed over me. I trembled, but I pushed myself up. "No. I'm innocent. I didn't do anything."

A hand cracked across my face, so hard my ears rang. I fell back, the taste of blood in my mouth.

"Think you're better than us, rich bitch?" the woman spat. The others closed in, a pack of wolves circling their prey.

They beat me. They kicked and punched until I curled into a ball on the floor, trying to protect my head. The pain was immense, but it was the degradation that shattered me.

That was only the first day.

For seven days, they tormented me. They forced me to drink water from the toilet. They held me down while another woman used a makeshift needle and ink to carve a crude, ugly flower onto my back. They stripped me naked and laughed at the scars Hudson had left on my body.

Every day was a nightmare I couldn't wake up from. I spent my time curled in a corner, counting the minutes, the hours, until Hudson' s promised release. The thought of freedom was the only thing that kept me sane.

When the day finally came, a guard unlocked the cell. "Anthony, you're out."

I stumbled into the light, my body a canvas of bruises, my spirit a hollow shell.

Hudson was waiting for me, leaning against his sleek black car. Ginger was beside him, clinging to his arm.

He saw me, and for the first time, a look of genuine shock crossed his face. He saw my split lip, the dark bruise on my cheek, the vacant look in my eyes.

"What happened to you?" he asked, his voice tight.

Ginger' s face soured. "Oh, stop it, Aleen," she whined. "Don't be so dramatic. It's just a few scratches."

Hudson' s gaze hardened, his brief flicker of concern extinguished by Ginger's words. "She's right. Stop making a scene."

I didn't have the energy to argue. A bitter smile touched my lips. "You're right. I won't do it again."

Never again.

The thought was a silent vow. It was time.

Back at the mansion, I went straight to my room. From a hidden compartment in my jewelry box, I took out a small vial. A special drug Cason had given me, one that would mimic the signs of death, slowing the heart to an almost undetectable flutter.

Hudson found me staring at it. A flicker of unease crossed his face.

"What is that?"

"My medication," I said, my voice flat. "For the trauma."

"You think I don't care about you, don't you?" he said, his voice laced with a strange, defensive tone. "You think I'm just a monster."

I just looked at him, my silence a more damning answer than any words could be.

He looked away, uncomfortable. "Look, tomorrow is Ginger's birthday. I have to go. I've already told everyone you're unwell from your... ordeal. I'll be back the day after. I'll make it up to you."

"Okay," I said, my voice eerily calm.

He seemed satisfied with my compliance. "Don't cause any more trouble."

He left. He actually believed I would just sit here and wait for him. The arrogance was breathtaking.

That night, as he celebrated her, the sky outside my window exploded in a kaleidoscope of color. Fireworks. For Ginger. A message spelled out in glittering light: Happy Birthday, my star.

I looked up at the words, a single tear tracing a path through the grime on my cheek.

I uncapped the vial and swallowed the contents without a second thought. The bitter liquid burned its way down my throat.

I walked out of the house, got into one of Hudson' s less conspicuous cars, and started driving towards the winding coastal highway. My hands were steady on the wheel.

My phone buzzed. It was Cason.

"Are you ready?" he asked, his voice tense.

"Ready," I replied.

"The ambulance is five minutes out. I'm in it. The staged scene is ready a mile ahead. Make it look good, Aleen."

"I will," I said.

I pressed the accelerator, the engine roaring. I aimed for the sharpest curve, the one with the steep cliff dropping down to the rocks below.

This was it.

Aleen Anthony was about to die.