Husband's Frame, Wife's Fierce Justice

My husband, Alec Craig, was Chicago' s star prosecutor, the man who saved me from a dark past. Or so I thought.

He was the man who sent me to prison, framing me for a crime I didn't commit to protect his ex-girlfriend, Catalina.

My three years in Joliet Correctional Center were a blur of concrete and gray uniforms. The woman who went in, a successful graphic designer who loved her husband, died in there. When I was finally released, I expected to see him, but he sent an assistant to "cleanse my bad energy."

Then I saw them: Alec and Catalina, hosting a "welcome home" party for me, the woman they put behind bars. They paraded me around, forcing me to drink champagne until I bled internally from a perforated ulcer.

Alec, ever the devoted protector, rushed to Catalina's side, leaving me bleeding on the floor. He even falsified my medical report, blaming my condition on alcohol.

I lay in that hospital bed, the last remnants of hope withering and dying. I couldn't cry. The feeling was too deep for tears. I just laughed, a wild, unhinged sound.

I wanted to destroy him. Not jail. I wanted him to lose everything. His career. His reputation. His precious Catalina. I wanted him to feel what I felt.

Chapter 1

Alec Craig was Chicago' s star prosecutor. He put bad guys away, and the city loved him for it. On TV, he was charismatic and righteous. At home, he was my husband. I thought he was the man who had saved me from a dark past.

I was wrong. He was the man who sent me to prison.

He framed me for a crime I didn't commit. Vehicular manslaughter. He stood in court and used my deepest, most private traumas against me, painting a picture of a woman who snapped and killed her own abusive father. The jury believed him. They gave me three years.

The real killer was Catalina Rowland, his ex-girlfriend from law school. A beautiful, unstable corporate lawyer he felt eternally responsible for. He had made her five promises, and protecting her from a DUI manslaughter charge was one of them.

My three years in the Joliet Correctional Center were a blur of concrete and gray uniforms. The woman who went in, a successful graphic designer who loved her husband, died in there. The day Alec came for his final visit before my trial, he held my hands through the thick glass of the visitation booth.

"Just trust me, Haven," he' d said, his voice a low, convincing hum. "This is the only way. For us."

I had. And it had destroyed me.

Now, the heavy steel gate clanked open. Freedom. The air, thick with the smell of rain and exhaust fumes, felt foreign after three years of recycled prison air. I expected to see his sleek black sedan waiting. I expected to see him.

A different car pulled up, a generic silver sedan.

A young man in a suit I didn't recognize got out. He looked nervous.

"Mrs. Craig?" he asked, his voice cracking slightly.

The name felt like a costume I was forced to wear. I didn't answer, just looked at him with the same flat expression I' d perfected in my cell. My face was thinner, my eyes holding a hollowness that hadn't been there before.

The assistant, flustered by my silence, opened the back door. Before I could get in, he pulled a small bundle of sage from his pocket and a lighter. He lit the end, and a plume of thick, cloying smoke filled the air. He waved it around my body, a clumsy, awkward ritual.

"What are you doing?" my voice was rusty, unused to speaking above a whisper.

He jumped, startled. "Mr. Craig' s orders. He said... to cleanse the bad energy. Before you come home."

Cleanse me. The humiliation was a cold, familiar weight in my gut. He hadn' t even come himself. He' d sent a boy to perform a purification rite on me, as if I were a haunted house, not his wife returning from a prison he' d put her in.

"Is that what he calls it?" I asked, the words sharp. "Bad energy?"

I didn' t wait for an answer. I slid into the back seat, the motion triggering a cascade of memories.

The night it happened. Flashing lights. The sickening crunch of metal and bone. Catalina, drunk and hysterical, behind the wheel of my car. My estranged father, a man who had only ever brought me pain, lying broken on the pavement.

I had looked at Alec, my husband, the prosecutor, expecting justice. I trusted him.

"I' ll handle this," he had promised, pulling me away from the scene, his arm a comforting weight around me.

His version of handling it was to stand before a judge and jury and betray me in the most public way possible. He detailed the years of abuse I suffered at my father' s hands, not as a tragedy I had overcome, but as a motive. He twisted my pain into a weapon and aimed it directly at my heart.

The courtroom gasped. The reporters scribbled furiously. I felt hundreds of eyes on me, stripping me bare. I couldn't breathe. The world became a muffled roar, and all I could see was Alec' s face, handsome and composed, as he methodically dismantled my life.

He won his case. I was convicted of patricide.

After the verdict, in a small, sterile room, I finally got to ask him why. His face was a mask of regret, but his eyes were resolute.

"I made promises to her, Haven. Long ago. I have to keep them."

He spoke of Catalina' s own trauma, a story he' d told me bits and pieces of, an event for which he carried an immense, suffocating guilt. He had to protect her. He had to save her.

"Once this is over," he' d whispered, his hand on the door, "once she' s stable, it' ll be us again. Just do your time. Be good. I' ll be waiting."

A bitter laugh escaped my lips then, a sound raw with disbelief and heartbreak. I had dedicated my life to him. I had supported his career, stood by him through every late night and high-pressure case. I remembered the small things, the way he' d hold my hand under the table at fancy dinners, the quiet reassurance in his eyes when my past crept up on me. He had been my safe harbor.

Now I knew the truth. His priority had always been Catalina. My deepest wounds, the ones I had only ever shown him, were just tools for him to use. Collateral damage in his quest to be her savior.

"Don' t appeal," he' d advised, his voice taking on the professional tone of a prosecutor again. "It' ll look better for your parole hearing. Just trust my strategy."

He still wore his wedding ring. "I still love you, Haven. I' m still your husband."

Trust him. The words echoed in the silence of the car.

The flashback ended as abruptly as it began, leaving me back in the silver sedan, the scent of sage still clinging to the air. My eyes were dry. I hadn' t cried in a long time. My tear ducts felt scorched, burned out from the inside.

The car slowed. We weren' t heading to our downtown condo. We were in a trendy, upscale neighborhood, pulling up to a restaurant with large glass windows and an outdoor patio.

Through the window, I saw him.

Alec.

He stood, smiling, raising a glass to a group of people. And then he turned, his smile widening as a woman approached him.

Catalina.

She linked her arm through his, and he leaned down to kiss her cheek. The gesture was easy, familiar.

My assistant cleared his throat. "Mr. Craig and Ms. Rowland arranged a small welcome home party for you."

A party. Planned by the woman who put me in prison. Hosted by the man who made sure I stayed there.

Alec looked the same. His suit was impossibly sharp, his dark hair perfectly styled. He moved with the same easy confidence that charmed juries and disarmed opponents. He was the sun, and everyone else was just a planet caught in his orbit.

I felt a ghost of a flinch as he approached the car, my body remembering a time when his presence meant safety. Now, it just felt like a threat.

He opened my door, his hand resting on my arm. The touch was meant to be reassuring, possessive. "Haven. You' re home."

Before I could respond, another voice cut through the air, sweet and cloying. "Haven! Oh, darling, you' re finally here!"

Catalina.

Alec' s hand immediately dropped from my arm as if it were hot. He turned to her, a reflex I knew all too well.

I said nothing. I just watched her. She was a vision in a white dress, her blonde hair catching the afternoon light. She rushed forward, her hands clasped together in a performance of overwhelming emotion.

"I am so, so sorry for everything," she breathed, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "You have no idea how much I' ve prayed for this day."

"She means it, Haven," Alec said, stepping between us. His tone was firm, a subtle command. "Catalina has been a rock. She' s the one who planned all of this, for you."

He was telling me to be grateful. He was telling me that I owed her something. The injustice of it was a physical pressure in my chest.

I opened my mouth to speak, to say something, anything, but Alec took my elbow. "Come on, everyone' s waiting."

He guided me onto the patio, his grip unyielding. The low murmur of conversation stopped. All eyes turned to me. I could hear their whispers, sharp and clear.

"Is that her? She looks... rough."

"She killed her own father. Can you imagine?"

"What does Alec see in her? She' s nothing compared to Catalina."

"I heard she came from a trashy family. Abused or something."

"Alec and Catalina were together in law school, you know. They always belonged together."

I saw Alec' s jaw tighten. The smile on his face became strained. He pulled me closer, his arm wrapping around my shoulders in a protective gesture that felt years too late.

"Don' t listen to them," he murmured into my ear, his breath warm against my skin.

But his embrace offered no comfort. My body was a block of ice. I didn' t lean into him. I didn' t tremble. I just stood there.

Gently, deliberately, I pushed his arm away.

He looked down at me, his eyes wide with surprise. A flicker of something-confusion, maybe even hurt-crossed his face before he masked it.

I remembered a thousand times he had held me just like that. After a nightmare. After a stressful day. He had been my shield. The man who protected me from the world.

But it was all a lie. The one person I had needed protection from was him.

I didn' t need his protection anymore.

Alec' s frustration was a palpable thing. He couldn' t control my reaction, and it bothered him. He turned his glare on the gossiping guests.

He strode into the center of the patio, his voice booming with authority. "Quiet!"

The whispers died instantly.

"I want to make something perfectly clear," he said, his eyes scanning the crowd. "This is my wife, Haven Craig. She has been through an ordeal none of you could possibly imagine."

His defense of me was as much a performance as Catalina' s tears.

"Whatever you think you know, you' re wrong. She is the strongest person I know, and she is home. With me. If anyone has a problem with that, you can take it up with me directly."

A tense silence fell over the patio. People shifted uncomfortably, avoiding his gaze.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Catalina watching him, a flash of pure jealousy in her eyes before it was replaced by her signature look of fragile vulnerability. She picked up a champagne flute, her hand trembling ever so slightly.

She took a dramatic sip.

Then she raised her glass to me, her voice ringing with false sincerity. "To Haven. Welcome home."

She stepped forward, her eyes locking with mine. "Please. Can you ever forgive me?"

I looked at the glass Catalina offered me. I didn' t move.

"No, thank you," I said. My voice was quiet, but it cut through the silence.

A wave of murmurs rippled through the guests.

"How rude."

"Catalina is trying so hard, and she just shuts her down."

"She' s ungrateful."

"Alec, what is wrong with her?" someone asked, their voice dripping with pity for him.

I saw the conflict in Alec' s eyes. He glanced at Catalina, who looked like she was about to shatter. Then he looked back at me. I saw the moment he made his choice. He always chose her.

He took the glass from Catalina' s hand.

"Haven," he said, his voice low and dangerously soft. He moved closer, blocking me from the view of the others. "Take the glass."

It wasn' t a request. It was an order.

"Nana isn' t doing well," he whispered, his words a precise, calculated blow. "It would be a shame if her nursing care was suddenly... interrupted."

My grandmother. The only person in the world who had ever loved me without condition. The thought of her, frail and alone, made my stomach clench with fear.

My hand trembled as I reached out and took the champagne flute. I brought it to my lips and drank. The bubbles burned my raw throat.

The tension on the patio eased. The guests smiled, relieved.

The toasts continued. One after another, people raised their glasses to me, to Alec, to their twisted idea of a happy reunion. Each time, I was expected to drink. I looked to Alec for help, for a sign, for anything.

He just gave me a small, encouraging nod. Play along.

He was too busy watching Catalina, making sure she was okay, leaving me to drown in a sea of champagne and fake smiles. I could feel Catalina' s eyes on me, a subtle, triumphant gleam in their depths.

I drank. And I drank.

A sharp pain began to build in my stomach, a familiar ache from the ulcers that had plagued me in prison. It grew with every glass they forced on me.

The pain sharpened, twisting into a knot of fire.

Catalina approached with one last glass, her smile wide and predatory. "One for the road?"

Suddenly, a wave of nausea washed over me. I doubled over, a strangled cough escaping my lips. I felt something hot and wet splash onto the pristine white tablecloth.

Blood.

The partygoers gasped in horror.

Alec' s first move was not toward me. He rushed to Catalina' s side, pulling her away as if I were contagious.

The world tilted. The pain in my stomach was a white-hot agony. The faces around me blurred, their voices a distant buzz. Then everything went black.

I woke up to the blinding glare of fluorescent lights. The smell of antiseptic filled my nose.

I was in a hospital bed.

Alec was sitting in a chair by the window, his back to me.

"You' re awake," he said, his voice laced with accusation. He turned, and I saw the anger in his eyes.

"What was that, Haven? Trying to make a scene? Trying to embarrass me?"

"I wasn' t..." My voice was a weak rasp. It was the first time we had spoken, really spoken, since my release.

He stood up and walked to my bedside. He looked at me, really looked at me for the first time. I saw his eyes trace the sharp angle of my jaw, the new gauntness of my cheeks. I had lost over thirty pounds in prison.

A flicker of guilt crossed his face. Just a flicker.

He reached out to touch my hair, his fingers brushing against my temple. "We' ll get you healthy again," he murmured, his tone softening into the one he used when he was promising the world. "We' ll go to Italy, just like we always planned. We' ll buy that little house by the sea. It will be just us."

He painted a beautiful picture of a future that felt like a lie.

I didn' t care about Italy. I didn' t care about the house. There was only one thing I cared about.

"Nana," I whispered. "How is she?"

He looked surprised. He had been launching into a monologue about our future, and I had interrupted him to ask about my grandmother.

"She' s... she' s fine," he said, a little too quickly.

Just then, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen. It was Catalina.

He stood up immediately, his face a mask of concern. "I have to go. Catalina' s having a panic attack. The blood... it triggered her."

He walked to the door without a second glance back.

Of course. Catalina was triggered. And me? I was just the prop that caused the trigger.

A dry, hollow laugh escaped my lips. He didn' t even hear it. He was already gone.