After Three Years in Prison, I Married the Ruthless Billionaire

Chloe Sinclair's consciousness returned with a violent headache, a feeling like being dragged from the deep sea onto dry land. Her eyelids were heavy. The air was thick with the smell of stale alcohol and an unfamiliar cologne.

She forced her eyes open. The dim light of the hotel room stabbed at them.

She was on the cold floor, dressed only in a man's oversized white shirt. It wasn't hers. The collar was open, revealing the pale skin of her collarbone.

Panic seized her heart. Her limbs felt weak as she pushed herself into a sitting position. This was a strange room, luxurious but chaotic, as if a storm had passed through.

Her evening gown was torn and tossed on the sofa next to an overturned champagne bucket. Her memory of last night was fractured. She only remembered celebrating her design award with her fiancé, Brandan Holder, and her cousin, Jessica Sinclair.

Chloe used the wall to pull herself to her feet, searching for her phone. Her foot hit a soft, heavy obstacle.

She looked down.

Her heart stopped.

A man lay sprawled on the floor, his eyes open and unseeing. His suit jacket hung loose around him, while the front of his dress shirt had been torn apart, exposing his bare chest. His belt was unfastened, hanging crookedly from his trousers. Blood matted the hair at his temple and spread across the carpet beneath his head. A shattered crystal vase lay nearby, its jagged pieces streaked red.

A scream caught in her throat. She trembled, stumbling backward until her spine hit the cold wall.

Just then, the suite door burst open with a deafening bang.

Flashes exploded in her face, blinding her. The roar of reporters' questions filled the air.

"Ms. Sinclair, who is the dead man?"

"Did you kill him?"

"Were the two of you having an affair?"

"Was this a lover's quarrel?"

For several seconds, Chloe could only stare at the wall of strangers crowding the doorway. Confusion froze her in place before raw panic tore through her.

Brandan Holder and Jessica Sinclair were at the front of the pack. Brandan's face was a perfect mask of shock and pain.

"Chloe!" Brandan's voice was a raw cry of betrayal. "We were supposed to announce our engagement tomorrow! How could you betray me with another man-and then kill him?"

Her mind was a blank slate. She instinctively reached a hand out to him, desperate for help, for an explanation. "Brandan, no, I don't know what happened..."

Jessica Sinclair stepped in front of Brandan, shielding him. Her eyes, filled with a mixture of pity and contempt, landed on Chloe. "Cousin," she said, her voice dripping with disappointment. "Ever since I became the Design Director at Sinclair Group, you've been drinking, lashing out, and accusing everyone of betraying you. But cheating on Brandan and killing your lover when he tried to leave? How could you go this far?"

Chloe finally understood. This was a trap, perfectly designed for her. Her gaze shifted between Brandan and Jessica, and in the depths of their eyes, she saw a flicker of shared, cold understanding.

"It was you... both of you..." Chloe's voice trembled with disbelief and despair.

Brandan avoided her gaze, turning to the reporters. "I, Brandan Holder, officially announce the end of my engagement to Chloe Sinclair! I will never marry a woman who betrayed me and is now suspected of murdering her lover!"

The police arrived quickly. Cold metal cuffs snapped around Chloe's wrists. She didn't struggle. Her eyes were locked on Jessica.

As the police led her away, Jessica leaned in close, her voice a venomous whisper only Chloe could hear. "Chloe, from now on, everything you have-your designs, your reputation, and Brandan-it's all mine."

As if to stop Chloe from saying anything more, Jessica pretended to steady her, then shoved her off balance. Chloe fell to one knee, her cuffed hands striking the floor. Jessica's high heel came down hard across her fingers.

"Ah!" A sharp, cracking sound echoed in Chloe's ears as pain shot up her arm. Her hands. Her most precious asset as a designer.

A flash of triumph lit up Jessica's eyes before she quickly replaced it with a look of alarm. "Oh, cousin, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to."

Flames of hatred ignited in Chloe's eyes. As she struggled on the floor, a tiny glint beside her injured hand caught her attention.

It was a delicate cufflink that must have rolled away in the chaos. A canary with spread wings, encrusted with tiny diamonds, sparkled under the lights.

It wasn't Brandan's style. It didn't belong to the dead man on the floor. There had been a third person in the room.

Before anyone noticed where she was looking, Chloe curled her throbbing fingers around the cufflink. The edge bit into her palm as she concealed it inside her clenched fist.

An officer hauled her upright. She kept her hand closed despite the pain, guarding the tiny piece of evidence as if it were the last fragment of her life that still belonged to her.

Her brain seared the image into her memory. The cufflink was the last bit of light before she was plunged into hell.

In the hallway, she heard Jessica's tearful voice addressing the media. "I can't believe my cousin would do something like this. She has completely disgraced the Sinclair family name..."

The trial was a farce, over almost before it began. All the evidence pointed to Chloe. The disheveled clothes, the fabricated messages found on her phone, her presence at the scene, and the bloodstained vase bearing only her fingerprints.

Brandan and Jessica testified as "victims," their voices choked with tears as they described their "heartbreak" and Chloe's "fall from grace."

The prosecution claimed Chloe had killed the man in the heat of passion after their secret encounter turned violent. The jury convicted her of voluntary manslaughter, and she was sentenced to three years in state prison.

She stood emotionless in the courtroom. Only when her eyes met Jessica's did the burning hatred in them make her cousin flinch.

She was officially incarcerated, trading her life for a prison uniform. Everything that was Chloe Sinclair was stripped away, leaving only hatred and the memory of a cufflink.

The cufflink itself remained with her. She hid it inside the stitched hem of her prison uniform, transferring it from one garment to the next whenever necessary. For three years, she kept it close to her body, the tiny diamond canary a silent promise that one day, she would uncover the truth.

The darkness of despair swallowed her whole. She had lost everything: her reputation, her career, her love, her family, and her freedom.

Three years later, the iron gate of the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility for Women slammed shut behind Chloe. She was finally free. Standing in the rain, she looked up at the gray sky. Prison had stripped away her innocence and left hatred carved into her bones.

"Brandan. Jessica. Three years ago, you took everything from me. Now that I'm out, I'll make you repay every debt-with interest."

Her face was no longer her own. An "accidental" fire in the prison had left a grotesque scar across her cheek. Later, through a mysterious benefactor, she had undergone facial reconstruction surgery. Now, she was Chloe Martin, with a face that was beautiful but entirely unfamiliar.

A black Lincoln Town Car pulled up silently in front of her. The driver, Joe Tucker, got out and respectfully opened the rear door. "Miss Martin, please."

Chloe didn't ask where they were going. During her sentence, the mysterious man known only as Byron Mitchell Sr. had paid for top lawyers, secured better living conditions for her, and requested photographs of her from before her imprisonment. Chloe had accepted his help because she needed to survive. But she had always known it would come at a price.

Only after her release did she learn who Byron Mitchell Sr. truly was. He was the founder and chairman emeritus of the Mitchell empire, one of Silicon Valley's most powerful dynasties. A feared patriarch with influence across the business world, Byron could destroy careers and companies with a single decision.

The car drove smoothly toward a top-tier estate in upstate New York-the Mitchell family's residence. The luxury of the surroundings was a stark contrast to her three years in prison. Chloe's eyes showed no emotion.

Inside the mansion, she was led to a room where a maid, Rosa White, handed her a pristine white wedding dress. There were no guests, no ceremony, just a stone-faced lawyer and a contract.

The contract was simple: she would marry Cullen Mitchell, Byron's grandson and one of the Mitchell family heirs. In exchange, the Mitchell family would protect her and help her achieve "anything" she desired.

Chloe knew who Cullen Mitchell was. A playboy who had become a vegetable after a car racing accident three years ago. He had remained unconscious ever since.

According to the Mitchell family's private astrologer, Cullen's accident had occurred beneath a catastrophic Saturn-Mars conjunction. An upcoming Venus-Jupiter alignment offered one chance to reverse his fate. If Cullen married a woman whose natal chart perfectly balanced his, the union was supposed to break the malignant cycle and draw his consciousness back.

Chloe had been selected as that woman.

It was an absurd theory wrapped in the language of Western astrology, but powerful old families had their own superstitions. Byron had enough money and influence to turn even a mystical ritual into a legally binding marriage.

"I'll sign." Chloe didn't hesitate, signing "Chloe Martin" on the dotted line. To her, marriage was just a tool for revenge.

Dressed in the wedding gown, she was taken to Cullen Mitchell's room. It was as large as a small ICU. Cullen lay quietly on the bed, his handsome face devoid of life.

The lawyer declared them husband and wife and then left. The room fell silent, leaving her with her new husband and the rhythmic beeping of the medical equipment.

Chloe walked to the window, watching the rain fall outside, already plotting the first step of her revenge. She needed a way into Sinclair Group.

She took out a cufflink, worn smooth from years of being held. The canary diamond cufflink. For three years, she had kept it with her. It was her only clue.

Late at night, the butler, Edwin Foster, knocked on the door. He informed her that she was to sleep in Cullen's room tonight to satisfy the old master's requirement that the couple share a room.

Chloe nodded, indifferent. She lay down on the sofa in the room.

As she drifted off, she thought she heard maids whispering outside the door. They said Mr. Barrett was drunk again and would probably come to see Mr. Cullen, just like he always did.

Later that night, she was jolted awake by the sound of heavy footsteps and the strong smell of alcohol.

The door to the room creaked open. A tall figure stumbled in. The man was well-built, and even in his drunken state, he radiated a suffocating sense of pressure.

Chloe immediately tensed, sitting up on the sofa. Who was this man? Why was he in Cullen's room?

The man didn't seem to see her. He walked straight to the hospital bed, muttering a name under his breath.

He stood by the bed, his tall frame casting a long shadow, looking down at Cullen as if seeing through him to someone else.

Chloe held her breath, not daring to make a sound. She could feel the dangerous aura coming from him.

The man irritably loosened his tie, then turned as if to go to the bathroom. His eyes finally fell upon Chloe on the sofa.

Their eyes met. Chloe saw a pair of deep, dark blue eyes, swirling with complex emotions she couldn't decipher.

The man froze, seemingly surprised to find someone else in the room. He narrowed his eyes and walked toward her, one step at a time.

The strong scent of whiskey washed over her. Chloe instinctively shrank back.

He stood before her, looking down, his gaze sharp enough to peel her apart.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice low and raspy, sexy from the alcohol.

Before Chloe could answer, the man suddenly leaned down and grabbed her chin.

His rough thumb stroked her skin, his eyes filled with a searching and slightly confused look.

The maids in the mansion whispered among themselves. Tonight, the true head of the Mitchell family-Mr. Barrett Mitchell-was drunk again.

Barrett Mitchell's fingertips were scorching hot. In the dim light, his face was sharply defined, his eyes hazy and dangerous.

"I asked you, who are you?" Barrett repeated, his breath, heavy with alcohol, fanning across Chloe's face.

Chloe forced herself to remain calm, her voice cold. "I am Cullen Mitchell's wife, Chloe Martin." She tried to use the title as a warning.

"Cullen's wife?" Barrett let out a short, sharp laugh, as if he'd heard the funniest joke in the world. He leaned in closer, his nose almost touching hers.

"Another woman who climbed into my cousin's sickbed for money." His words were filled with undisguised contempt.

Chloe's eyes went cold. She hated being defined by money, especially now that she had nothing.

She tried to push him away, but his arm was like an iron clamp. He suddenly ducked his head, and a rough, punishing kiss landed on her lips.

Chloe's mind went blank. Humiliation and rage surged through her. She struggled, even opening her mouth to bite his lip.

The faint taste of blood spread between them. Barrett grunted in pain but didn't let go. Instead, he deepened the kiss, full of plunder and possession.

Just as Chloe felt she was about to suffocate, Barrett abruptly stopped. As if suddenly sober, he shoved her away.

Chloe stumbled back, hitting the arm of the sofa. She furiously wiped her lips, her eyes like daggers of ice.

Barrett's expression had changed. The haze and possession were gone, replaced by utter confusion and... disgust. "You're not her," he muttered to himself.

The woman in his memory-the one he had briefly encountered at a hotel three years ago-had looked nothing like the flawless stranger before him.

"Get out." Barrett's voice was as cold as ice as he pointed to the door.

Chloe was about to retort that this was her husband's room, and why should she be the one to leave.

Just then, a soft knock came at the door. The butler, Edwin Foster, spoke from outside. "Mr. Barrett, the master wishes to see you."

Barrett rubbed his brow in frustration. He shot Chloe a look, a look one might give to a disgusting piece of trash.

He ignored her, turned, and opened the door. He spoke a few cold words to Edwin, then strode away.

Edwin Foster entered the room. His expressionless gaze fell on Chloe, her lips slightly swollen, her clothes in disarray.

"Miss Martin," Edwin said, his voice flat. "To put the old master's mind at ease, I need to take a picture of you and Mr. Barrett 'getting along.'"

Chloe froze. What kind of absurd request was this? Take a "harmonious" photo with the man who had just forcibly kissed her?

Edwin seemed to see her resistance. "This is part of your contract-to cooperate unconditionally with any arrangement of the Mitchell family."

Humiliation washed over her again. Chloe clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. For her revenge, she had to endure.

"Fine," she squeezed the word through her teeth.

Edwin led her to a room at the end of the hall. Barrett was standing there, looking impatient. Clearly, this was also Byron Sr.'s order.

"Hurry up," Barrett said coldly.

Chloe walked to his side as Edwin raised his phone. To create the illusion of intimacy, Chloe took a deep breath and moved closer to Barrett, resting her head lightly on his shoulder.

The moment she leaned against him, she could feel his body stiffen and the palpable air of resistance radiating from him.

Edwin quickly snapped the photo. In the picture, the woman nestled close while the man's profile remained cold and severe, creating a strange and ambiguous scene.

The second the photo was taken, Barrett pushed Chloe away as if she were a plague.

"Don't let me see you again," Barrett said, turning and walking away without a backward glance.