Scars Of Betrayal: The Heiress's Revenge

The heavy metallic clang of the prison gate sliding shut behind Alice Stafford vibrated through the soles of her cheap canvas shoes.

It was a sound she had dreamt of for one thousand and ninety-five days, but now that it was real, it didn't feel like freedom.

The late October wind in Danbury had teeth.

It bit through the thin fabric of her gray issued sweatshirt, raising goosebumps on skin that hadn't seen direct sunlight in three years.

Alice raised a hand to shield her eyes from the glare.

Her vision blurred for a second, adjusting to the lack of bars, before focusing on the car parked fifty yards down the access road.

A black Maybach.

It sat there like a sleek, predatory beast, out of place against the cracked pavement and the gray concrete walls of the correctional facility.

Her heart did a painful flip in her chest.

Benny.

He came.

Despite everything-the silence, the missed visits, the rumors Martha had hinted at in her sporadic letters-he came.

She tightened her grip on the clear plastic bag in her hand. It contained her life: three unmailed letters addressed to him, a stick of lip balm, the clothes she was arrested in, and a thick stack of letters bound with a rubber band, their edges softened from countless readings.

She waited for the car door to open, for the man who had once vowed to love her forever to come rushing out and embrace her.

The car remained motionless.

As she got closer, the tinted rear window rolled down halfway. Just enough to reveal a profile she had memorized in the dark.

Benito Vinson. He was wearing sunglasses, staring intently at his phone screen. He didn't look up. He didn't look for her.

Her steps faltered. A knot of anxiety tightened in her stomach, replacing the hope that had been keeping her upright.

The driver's door opened.

A man she didn't recognize stepped out. He wore white gloves.

He didn't smile. He didn't offer to take her bag. He simply opened the rear door and stood back, his face a mask of professional indifference, as if he were disposing of hazardous waste rather than picking up his employer's fiancée.

She ducked her head and climbed into the backseat.

The atmosphere inside hit her like a physical blow. The air was thick with the scent of rich leather and an expensive, spicy cologne that she used to find comforting. Now, mixed with the stale air of the prison that clung to her clothes, it was nauseating.

She settled into the seat, the plush leather foreign against her body. She turned to him.

"Benny," she whispered. Her voice was raspy, unused to speaking at a normal volume. "I'm back."

Benito didn't turn immediately. He finished typing something on his phone, hit send, and then, slowly, rotated his head toward her.

He slid the sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, the harsh blue light of his phone screen reflecting in his cold eyes.

His eyes.

They used to look at her with a warmth that made her feel like the only person in the room.

Now, they swept over her with a clinical, detached scrutiny. He looked at her stringy hair, her pale face, her rough, red hands resting on her knees.

His lip curled. A micro-expression of distaste that vanished as quickly as it appeared, but she saw it.

It cut deeper than any shank in the prison yard.

He didn't say hello. He didn't reach for her.

Instead, he opened the center console and pulled out a small bottle of hand sanitizer.

She watched, frozen, as he squeezed a dollop of clear gel onto his palm. He rubbed his hands together methodically, interlacing his fingers, scrubbing the backs of his hands, the sharp scent of alcohol filling the small space between them.

He was sanitizing himself. Because she was near him.

Her breath hitched in her throat. She felt the blood drain from her face.

"Put your seatbelt on," Benito said. His voice was smooth, cool, devoid of any emotion other than mild annoyance. "Don't let the paparazzi get a shot of you looking like... that."

Her hands trembled as she reached for the belt. The click of the buckle sounded like a gunshot in the silence.

The car accelerated smoothly, pulling away from the curb. Her body was pressed back against the seat, and a dull ache flared in her lower back, a reminder of the concrete bunk she had slept on last night.

Benito pressed a button, and the privacy partition slid up, sealing them off from the driver.

"Estelle has a charity auction today," he said, looking out the window at the passing trees. "I have to get back to support her."

The name made her stomach turn. Estelle. Her sister. The one who had cried and begged her to take the fall.

"I just got out of prison, Benito," she said, her voice gaining a fraction of strength. "And you're rushing back to her?"

He turned to look at her fully then, his expression hardening. "Estelle has suffered enough because of your mess, Alice. She's been holding the family reputation together while you were... away. You should be grateful."

She stared at him, unable to process the words. "Grateful? I spent three years in a cage for this family. For your future."

Benito let out a short, cold laugh. "That was your choice. And look at you now. You're a felon, Alice. A liability. What exactly do you think you bring to the table anymore?"

The words were a slap. Physical and sharp.

She looked at the man sitting next to her. The tailored suit, the manicured nails, the perfect hair. He was a stranger. The Benny she loved was dead.

She closed her eyes, digging her fingernails into her palms until she felt the sting of skin breaking.

She wouldn't cry. She had learned that lesson the hard way.

Tears were blood in the water.

The car sped up, merging onto the highway, carrying her away from one prison and straight toward another.

The Maybach took the curve too fast.

The high-performance engine purred with a low, aggressive growl that vibrated through the chassis.

Her stomach, lurched violently.

Sweat pricked at her hairline. She wasn't used to this motion.

For three years, her world had been static. Concrete floors, steel bars, a yard that measured fifty paces by fifty paces. The sensation of speed, the shifting g-forces, it was too much.

She squeezed her eyes shut, her hand instinctively gripping the beige leather seat beneath her to anchor herself.

"Don't," Benito's voice snapped like a whip.

Her eyes flew open. He was staring at her hand.

"Don't dig your nails into the leather," he said, his nose wrinkling slightly. "That's custom calfskin. It stains."

She snatched her hand back as if the seat were burning. She looked at her fingers. They were clean, scrubbed raw before she left, but to him, they were filthy.

"It's just a car, Benny," she murmured, swallowing back the bile rising in her throat. "I feel sick."

He didn't ask if she was okay. He didn't offer to slow down. He reached for the door panel and engaged the window locks.

"Do not throw up in here," he warned. "I just had this detailed."

He opened the console again, took out a packet of wet wipes, and tossed it into her lap. "Wipe your hands. God knows what you've been touching in that place."

She stared at the packet. Antibacterial. Kills 99.9% of germs.

She was the germ.

Shame, hot and suffocating, washed over her.

She tore open the packet with trembling fingers. The chemical smell of the wipe made her nausea worse, but she wiped her hands. She wiped them until the skin turned red, just to appease him.

"Estelle would never let herself get like this," Benito said suddenly. He wasn't looking at her, just staring straight ahead. "She's always... pristine. She smells like vanilla."

She stopped wiping. She looked at his profile, the sharp jawline she used to kiss.

"Estelle didn't go to prison," she said quietly. "Because I went for her."

Benito whipped his head around, his eyes flashing with genuine anger. "Stop it. Stop trying to blame Estelle. We all know the truth, Alice. You got greedy. You wanted to make a quick buck on those trades."

Her mouth fell open. The air left her lungs. "What?"

"Uncle Richard told me everything," he continued, his voice dripping with disdain. "You went rogue. Estelle cried for days when you were sentenced. She begged me not to leave you, even though you disgraced us."

Her father. Her father had told him she did it for greed? And Benito... he believed it?

A wave of dizziness hit her. It wasn't just the motion sickness anymore. It was the vertigo of reality shifting beneath her feet. They had rewritten history. They had turned her into the villain to save themselves, and they hadn't even waited until her body was cold.

Her stomach convulsed.

She clamped a hand over her mouth, a guttural sound escaping her throat.

Benito recoiled, pressing himself against the far door, his face twisting in horror.

"Pull over!" he shouted at the driver. "Pull over now! She's going to be sick!"

The car swerved to the shoulder, tires crunching on gravel. The moment they stopped, the locks clicked open.

She scrambled out, falling onto the grass verge. The cold air hit her face, but it didn't help. She retched, her body heaving violently, but nothing came up except bitter acid. Her stomach was empty.

She knelt there, gasping for breath, shivering in the wind.

Behind her, she heard Benito's voice. It had changed pitch completely. It was soft, low, intimate.

"Hey, baby... No, I'm almost there... Just a little delay... Yeah, I picked her up." A pause. "Don't worry, I won't let her ruin your night. I love you too."

She froze. She wiped the spittle from her chin with the back of her hand and slowly stood up.

Through the open window, she saw him. He was smiling at the phone. A smile she hadn't seen in three years.

He wasn't just supporting Estelle.

He was with her.

The realization didn't hurt. It was too massive for pain. It was a numbing blow that severed the last nerve ending connecting her to him.

She looked at the car. She didn't want to get back in. She wanted to walk away, into the woods, anywhere but there.

But she had no money. No phone. No ID. She was a felon on parole with nowhere to go.

Benito lowered the phone and looked at her. The warmth vanished instantly.

"Are you done?" he asked, checking his watch. "Get in. Estelle is waiting."

She walked back to the car. She didn't look at him. She sat on the edge of the seat, pressing herself into the corner, as far away from him as the small space would allow.

The door closed. The lock clicked. They were moving again.

The iron gates of Stafford Manor swung open, revealing the long, winding driveway lined with perfectly manicured hedges. Everything looked exactly the same. The fountain, the white stone façade, the sprawling lawn.

It was a picture of perfection, a stark contrast to the chaos inside her.

The car stopped in front of the main entrance. Benito didn't get out. He didn't even look up from his phone.

"Go inside and get cleaned up," he said, his thumbs flying across the screen. "There's a Gala tonight. Try not to embarrass us."

She opened the door herself. The heavy thud of it closing behind her felt final.

She walked up the steps, carrying her plastic bag. The front door opened before she reached it. Martha, the head housekeeper, stood there. Her face was pinched, her eyes darting nervously past her to the car.

"Miss Alice," she said, her voice barely a whisper. She didn't hug her. Martha, who had practically raised her, kept her hands clasped tightly in front of her apron.

"Hello, Martha," she said. "I'm just going to my room."

Martha flinched. "About that... Miss Estelle... she turned your suite into her music room. The acoustics were better."

Alice stopped. Her room. Her sanctuary.

"Where am I staying?"

Martha looked down at her shoes. "The Madam said the guest room at the end of the east hall would be suitable."

The east hall. That was where the seasonal staff used to stay. The rooms were small, drafty, and dark.

"Fine," she said. Her voice was hollow. "I know the way."

She walked past Martha, up the grand staircase, her sneakers squeaking on the marble. The house was silent, but it felt like the walls were watching her.

The guest room smelled of dust and damp. The furniture was covered in sheets. She didn't care. She went straight to the small bathroom attached to it.

She stripped off the gray sweatpants and the sweatshirt. She stood in front of the mirror. Her ribs were visible. Her skin was sallow. Her eyes looked huge and haunted.

She turned on the shower. The water took a long time to warm up. When it did, she stepped in, grabbing a bar of harsh soap. She scrubbed. She scrubbed until her skin turned angry red. She wanted to wash off the prison. She wanted to wash off the smell of Benito's car. She wanted to wash off the last three years.

The steam filled the small room. She turned her back to the spray, letting the hot water run over the scar that ran diagonally across her shoulder blade. A souvenir from a "fight" in the laundry room during her second month. A fight Estelle had paid for.

Suddenly, the creak of the main guest room door, which she'd noted earlier had a broken lock, was followed by heavy footsteps. Before she could even process the intrusion, the bathroom door flew open.

She gasped, spinning around, clutching a thin towel to her chest.

Benito stood in the doorway. He hadn't knocked. The lock on the door was broken-she had noticed it but hadn't thought anyone would come here.

He froze. He wasn't looking at her face. He was staring at her exposed shoulder, at the jagged, purple keloid scar.

His face contorted. Not with pity. With revulsion.

"Jesus," he breathed, taking a step back. "Your back... it's disgusting."

The air left the room.

"Get out!" she screamed, her voice cracking. "Get out, Benito!"

He didn't leave. He regained his composure, his lip curling into a sneer. "Don't flatter yourself. I didn't want to see anything. I just came to tell you to keep your mouth shut tonight."

He gestured vaguely at her body. "That... mark. It's exactly what you deserve. In a place like that, only the loose women get into trouble like that."

Her blood ran cold. "Loose?" Her voice shook. "I was attacked. I was defending myself."

"Defending yourself?" He scoffed. "Or were you trying to please some 'big shot' in there for protection?"

Something inside her snapped. The sheer injustice, the vile accusation, it was too much.

She grabbed the heavy ceramic soap dish from the sink and hurled it at him.

It missed his head by an inch, shattering against the doorframe with a loud crack. Shards of ceramic rained down on the floor.

Benito flinched, his eyes widening. "You're crazy! You're a complete savage!"

He grabbed the door handle and slammed it shut. The force of it shook the wall, sending a sprinkle of plaster dust down from the ceiling.

She slid down the cold tiles, the towel slipping from her grip. She pulled her knees to her chest.

He thought she was a monster. He thought she was a whore.

She looked at the scar in the mirror again. It was ugly. It was jagged.

But as she stared at it, the tears she expected didn't come. Instead, a cold, hard resolve settled in her chest.

If they wanted a monster, she would give them one.

She stood up and turned the water back on. Cold, this time. To wake her up.