The Billionaire's Broken Doll Returns

Jane's eyes snapped open.

She gasped for air, her chest heaving against the thin, hard mattress of the prison cot. The deafening roar of the car explosion still echoed in her ears, vibrating against her eardrums.

Cold sweat soaked her hairline. She wrapped her arms tightly around her ribs, shivering uncontrollably in the damp air of Cell Block D. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force the image of Blaire Lowe screaming in the flames out of her mind.

The metal bed frame above her violently shook.

A heavy boot kicked the bottom of Jane's mattress.

Tasha Riggs leaned halfway over the top bunk. Her face was twisted into a vicious sneer.

"Having nightmares about the people you killed again, Hanson?" Tasha mocked, her voice thick with malice.

Jane did not argue. She lowered her head and curled her knees closer to her chest. She was used to this. She absorbed the verbal abuse the same way she absorbed the cold air-it was simply part of her existence now.

Her silence only irritated Tasha more.

Tasha swung her heavy legs over the side and dropped to the concrete floor. She reached out and grabbed a fistful of Jane's dry, brittle hair.

"Look at me when I talk to you," Tasha snarled, yanking Jane's head back. "You think you're better than us? You're a disease. A rich little murderer."

A sharp pain burned across Jane's scalp. Her eyes watered, but she bit down hard on her lower lip. She refused to let out a single sound.

Tasha let out a disgusted breath and shoved Jane hard.

Jane's frail body hit the wet, freezing concrete floor. Her knees slammed into the ground. The skin scraped open, and warm blood began to ooze down her shin. She stayed on the floor, perfectly silent.

Tasha walked over to Jane's small plastic storage bin and kicked it over.

A few pathetic belongings scattered across the floor. A worn toothbrush. A half-empty tube of toothpaste. And a photograph with yellowed edges.

It was the only picture Jane had of herself with her adoptive parents before she went to prison.

Tasha saw it. Instead of just stepping on it, she snatched the photograph off the floor with a wicked grin. She walked over to the rusted, foul-smelling toilet and deliberately used the corner of the picture to scrape a layer of yellow grime off the rim. "You still think you're a high-society princess, Hanson?" Tasha mocked, tossing the soiled, ruined photograph directly onto Jane's bleeding knees. "You're nothing but a dirty little rat who belongs in the sewage."

Jane's pupils shrank. The numbness shattered.

She lunged forward, throwing her upper body toward Tasha's foot to snatch the photo away.

Tasha laughed. She swung her arm back and delivered a brutal backhand across Jane's left cheek.

The force snapped Jane's head to the side. Her split lip tore open again. The thick, metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth.

Tasha pointed a thick finger at the metal toilet in the corner of the cell. It smelled like stale urine and rust.

"Take your toothbrush," Tasha ordered. "Lick the grime off the rim."

Jane wiped the blood from her chin with the back of her hand. She did not fight back. Her face was completely blank as she picked up her toothbrush and crawled toward the toilet.

In her mind, she owed this to Blaire. This was the punishment she deserved for the accident. She welcomed the degradation.

Just as Jane bent her head toward the bowl, the heavy metal lock on the cell door let out a loud, grinding screech.

Hank Dugan, the block guard, stood on the other side of the iron bars. He slammed his nightstick against the metal. The ringing sound bounced off the concrete walls.

"Inmate 4098," Hank called out, his voice flat and bored.

Tasha immediately backed away from Jane. She crossed her arms, a smug smile spreading across her face. She thought Jane was finally getting sent to solitary confinement.

Hank looked down at Jane kneeling by the toilet. "Your parole application cleared. You're getting released today."

The plastic toothbrush slipped from Jane's fingers. It hit the floor with a hollow clatter.

Her entire body froze.

Getting out was not freedom. Getting out meant she had to exist in the same world as Carson Long again. The man who hated her more than anyone else alive.

A cold, suffocating terror gripped her heart.

"Hurry up and pack your trash," Hank snapped, annoyed by her lack of movement. "We got paperwork to do."

Jane moved like a machine. She slowly reached out and picked up the dirty, crumpled photograph from the floor. She tucked it carefully into the pocket of her pants.

Tasha stared at her, her jaw dropping in jealous disbelief.

Jane followed Hank out of the dark, humid cell.

As they walked down the long corridor, inmates pressed their faces against the bars. They spat at her feet. They screamed vile curses, calling her an arsonist and a killer.

Jane kept her chin tucked to her chest, accepting every drop of their hatred until they reached the property room.

She changed into the clothes she had worn five years ago. The fabric hung loosely off her emaciated frame, making her look small and pathetic.

Hank slid a thin paper envelope across the counter.

"Twenty dollars gate money," Hank said. "And the address to your halfway house in Queens. Don't miss your check-in."

Jane picked up a cheap pen. Her hand shook violently as she signed her name on the release form. The ink scratched a jagged, uneven line across the paper.

The final steel door buzzed loudly. It slid open.

Blinding, unfiltered sunlight hit Jane's face. She squeezed her eyes shut, stepping out into a freedom that felt exactly like a death sentence.

Jane stood at a busy intersection in Manhattan. She wore her oversized, outdated coat. The noise of the city rushed past her in a blur of yellow cabs and rushing pedestrians.

A taxi sped through a puddle near the curb. Dirty water splashed against her pant legs. She flinched and stumbled backward.

People in expensive suits cast disgusted glances at her. She immediately dropped her gaze, her shoulders hunching forward in the same defensive posture she used to avoid guards in Cell Block D.

She forced herself to look up. In the distance, the towering glass skyscrapers pierced the clouds. That was Carson Long and Blaire Lowe's world. She did not belong here anymore.

A sharp gust of wind blew down the avenue. She wrapped her arms around her waist. Her cold fingers brushed against the thin envelope in her pocket.

Her parole officer's warning echoed in her head. She had to be at the halfway house in Queens before sunset.

But her feet moved in the opposite direction. She walked toward the Upper East Side. Toward New York-Presbyterian Hospital.

She stopped outside a high-end florist. Through the pristine glass window, she saw a display of fresh white lilies.

They were Blaire's favorite. Five years ago, before the fire, Jane used to help Blaire pick them out.

She pushed the heavy glass door open. A small bell chimed. The sudden blast of warm air from the heaters made her shiver.

The clerk behind the counter looked up. Her eyes scanned Jane's ragged clothes and the fading bruises on her face. The clerk's expression instantly hardened into defensive disgust.

Jane pointed a trembling finger at the white lilies.

"How much?" Jane asked. Her voice was raspy, sounding like sandpaper scraping across wood.

The clerk stated a price that was three times the amount in Jane's pocket. She gave Jane a look that clearly said to leave.

Jane pulled her hand back. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the crisp twenty-dollar bill. She placed it gently on the glass counter.

"Can I..." Jane swallowed hard. "Can I buy something cheaper? Even if they are dying. Just for twenty dollars."

The clerk rolled her eyes. She slapped a few crumpled dollar bills onto the glass counter as change, then walked over to a plastic bucket in the corner meant for the trash. She pulled out three wilting daisies with browning edges and shoved them into Jane's hands.

Jane did not care about the disrespect. She held the dying flowers against her chest as if they were made of gold.

"Thank you," Jane whispered repeatedly.

She left the shop and continued walking up Madison Avenue. With every step closer to the hospital, her heart beat faster against her ribs.

She stopped in front of the massive hospital entrance. The revolving doors spun endlessly, swallowing up well-dressed, healthy people.

She looked down at her scuffed, dirty shoes. A wave of intense shame washed over her. She did not deserve to breathe the same air as the people inside.

But when she blinked, she heard Blaire's agonizing screams from the burning car.

The desperate need to atone pushed the fear down. She clenched her jaw and forced her stiff legs to walk into the bright, sterile lobby.

The air conditioning raised goosebumps on her arms. She walked up to the front desk.

"I need the room number for Blaire Lowe," Jane said softly.

The nurse's face dropped. Her eyes darted over Jane's face. She immediately reached under the desk and pressed the silent security button.

"Who are you?" the nurse demanded, her voice tight with panic.

"I'm her friend," Jane stuttered, taking a step back. "I just want to see her."

At that exact moment, the large television screen mounted on the lobby wall switched to a financial news broadcast.

Jane heard the name. She snapped her head up and stared at the screen.

Carson Long.

He wore a tailored black suit. His face was sharp, handsome, and terrifyingly cold. Five years had made him look even more ruthless. Just looking at his face on a screen made Jane's lungs constrict.

Two massive security guards marched across the lobby floor, heading straight for Jane.

Jane panicked. She turned away from the desk and ran toward the elevator banks, desperately looking for the VIP wing.

She collided hard with an orderly pushing a medical cart.

Plastic trays, bandages, and metal instruments crashed onto the marble floor. The noise echoed like a gunshot.

Everyone in the lobby stopped and stared at the frail, terrified woman.

A security guard grabbed Jane's arm and twisted it violently behind her back. A sharp pain shot through her shoulder. She let out a muffled groan. The three daisies fell to the floor.

Through the chaos, the stainless steel doors of the private VIP elevator chimed open.

A middle-aged woman stepped out, surrounded by bodyguards. She wore a custom Chanel suit. Her face was elegant, but right now, it was twisted in absolute fury.

It was Meredith Lowe. Blaire's mother.

Meredith stopped dead in her tracks. She looked past her bodyguards, her sharp eyes locking onto the woman pinned by security.

When she recognized the face she hadn't seen in five years, Meredith's features contorted into pure, unfiltered hatred.

Meredith marched forward, her high heels clicking aggressively against the marble.

"Let her go," Meredith snapped at the guard.

The guard released his grip. Jane lost her balance and collapsed onto the freezing marble floor.

Before Jane could even lift her head, Meredith was standing over her. Meredith raised her hand and slapped Jane across the face with all her strength.

The sharp crack echoed through the silent lobby. Jane's head whipped to the side. The split in her lip tore wider, and fresh blood spilled down her chin.

Jane did not try to protect herself. She pushed herself up onto her knees. Tears spilled over her eyelashes and tracked through the dirt on her cheeks.

"Aunt Meredith," Jane cried, her voice breaking. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I just wanted to see Blaire."

Hearing her daughter's name pushed Meredith over the edge.

Meredith grabbed the handle of her heavy platinum Birkin bag and swung it down. She smashed the bag repeatedly into Jane's head and shoulders.

"You murderer!" Meredith screamed hysterically. "You ruined her life!"

The heavy metal clasp of the bag struck Jane's forehead. The skin split open. A thick line of blood ran down Jane's brow and dripped into her eye.

A crowd gathered. Whispers broke out as people recognized Jane from the tabloids five years ago.

Cell phones went up. People started recording the disgraced socialite getting beaten like a stray dog.

Jane curled into a tight ball on the floor. She wrapped her arms around her head, taking every blow. The three daisies lay crushed under Meredith's shoes.

Suddenly, the massive automatic doors of the hospital lobby slid open.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop below freezing. The loud whispers and camera clicks stopped instantly.

A fleet of black, bulletproof Maybachs sat idling at the curb. Carson Long stepped into the lobby, flanked by bodyguards and assistants.

He wore a dark, perfectly tailored suit. He looked like a god of destruction. His eyes were colder than glacial ice.

Brenda Walsh, his lead public relations assistant, stepped forward. She aggressively shoved the gawking crowd out of the way.

Carson's gaze swept over the lobby and landed perfectly on the bleeding, trembling woman curled on the floor.

The moment he saw Jane, Carson's pupils contracted. His hands curled into tight fists at his sides.

Five years in prison had not washed away her sins in his eyes. The passage of time had only fermented his hatred into something darker and more potent.

Brenda walked up to Meredith. She looked down at Jane with absolute disgust.

"How did security let this trash into the VIP sector?" Brenda yelled at the guards.

Jane heard the heavy, rhythmic sound of Carson's leather shoes approaching. Her breathing stopped.

She slowly lifted her head. Through the blur of her own blood and tears, she met Carson's eyes.

There was no emotion in his stare. Only an absolute, consuming desire to destroy her.

Jane's body began to shake violently. The terror was carved into her bones.

She tried to push herself backward, but her bloody hands slipped on the polished marble. She looked pathetic.

Carson stopped one step away from her. The tip of his expensive leather shoe almost touched her trembling fingers.

Meredith stood back, breathing heavily. "Look at her, Carson. She has no shame. Showing her face here."

Carson ignored Meredith. His eyes were nailed to Jane's face.

He saw the gash on her forehead and the blood on her lips. A strange, uncomfortable tightness flared deep in his chest, but he instantly crushed it with rage.

He convinced himself this was just her usual manipulation. She was playing the victim to get pity.

Carson leaned down slightly. His lips barely moved as he spoke in a voice so cold it burned.

"You stained my floor."