Diana's POV

Camila squinted at me the moment she opened the door. "Where did you spend the night? You look like crap."

I tried to smile, but my lips barely moved. "I didn’t sleep."

Her grin widened like she had just confirmed a suspicion. "And what are you doing here at this hour?" she asked, still smiling.

I ignored the expression on her face. I didn’t have the energy to figure it out. "Do you have a spare uniform? I need to wash the one I wore yesterday… and this dress."

Her smile vanished. "Wait. You’re Mr Gordon’s wife. Why on earth do you need a worker’s uniform?" She folded her arms, narrowing her eyes. "Don’t tell me you’re joining us to work again today?"

"Camila, marriage is just a label. A tag to wear," I whispered. "It doesn’t mean anything."

She tilted her head, frown deepening. "Really? Then where did you sleep last night?"

"Why do you ask?" I muttered, dodging the question.

"You’ve got threads from a rice sack stuck in your hair," she said bluntly. "Did you sleep in the storage room?"

My eyes widened. I rushed forward, clapping a hand over her mouth. I glanced left and right to make sure no one was around, my heart thudding with panic. "Please," I begged, lowering my voice. "No one must know."

When I let go, she stared at me, realisation dawning. "So that’s what you meant by ‘marriage is just a tag.'" She exhaled heavily. "Mr Gordon is still being himself, huh? For a moment, I thought he had changed when he brought you here. But…" She shook her head, pity flashing in her eyes. "Girl, of all the men in this world, why him?"

I took the fresh uniform she pulled from her wardrobe, my voice small. "It has nothing to do with his wealth. Something beyond me happened, and that’s how I ended up here."

She eyed my belly. "Oh dear Lord, don’t tell me you’re creating a mini version of him inside you. One Gordon is already too much for the world."

Despite the ache in my chest, I forced a reply. "People aren’t born with character. The world shapes them. Exposure, circumstance… all that."

She sighed and softened. "Take a shower. And listen, if he ever forces you into the store room again, just come here. It’s not healthy for you or that little one to sleep on the floor."

For the first time that morning, I felt something close to gratitude. "Thank you, Camila."

After bathing, I washed the dress and the uniform from yesterday, wringing the clothes with trembling hands. I had just finished emptying the bucket when I turned and froze.

Mrs Smith stood at the edge of the yard, her eyes cold and calculating.

"Good morning, Mrs Smith," I greeted quickly, my stomach twisting.

She looked me up and down, then spoke with crisp authority. "You stay in Camila’s room until ten. That should be enough rest. Come to the main house at ten-thirty. I’ll assign your tasks."

Without another word, she turned and walked away, heels clicking on the stones.

I exhaled shakily. That wasn’t a concern. She wasn’t giving me rest for my sake; she was ensuring her husband never saw how she truly treated me.

At ten-thirty, I stood before her in the main house. As expected, Mr Smith was nowhere to be found. Mrs Smith’s tone was brisk and sharp as she rattled off a list of chores, polishing, scrubbing, cooking, each with strict time limits.

Halfway through her commands, Gordon strolled in, his cologne preceding him. He kissed his mother’s cheek and informed her casually, "I’m going into town." He didn’t even glance at me. Not a single word.

He brushed past me like I was invisible.

That became my life. Days blurred into weeks. I was a slave in everything but name, with Camila as my only comfort. She slipped me food when she could, loaned me clothes, and whispered encouragement when my strength faltered. But every night, Gordon sent me back to the store room, or worse. His cruelty was relentless.

And still, no one knew.

A month passed.

I was in the kitchen, sweat dripping down my temples as I worked over the stove. Supper had to be finished before six, before Mr Smith returned. Mrs Smith had banned anyone from helping me. Alone, I chopped and stirred, exhaustion weighing heavily on my bones.

Today should have been my graduation day. My classmates were probably tossing caps into the air, celebrating their future. I had no future. No ceremony. Just a knife in my hand and a pot simmering on the stove.

I hadn’t seen a doctor once since learning of my pregnancy. Gordon lied to his father, telling him he took me for check-ups. I said nothing. I couldn’t.

Suddenly, the kitchen spun. My vision swam, my legs threatening to give way. I sat quickly, clutching the counter until the dizziness eased. This wasn’t new, I had learned to endure it, to lie flat or rest until it passed.

But when I stood again, knife in hand, everything blurred. The room dimmed. My knees buckled.

The crash of falling utensils rang in my ears as darkness swallowed me.

I woke to the steady beep of machines. My left arm throbbed, wrapped in thick bandages. The pungent smell of antiseptic filled my nose.

Panic shot through me. The baby.

A doctor entered, clipboard in hand. She checked my vitals before meeting my desperate gaze.

"When was your last antenatal check?" she asked.

My lips trembled. "I… I never had one."

Her face softened with pity. "Hmm."

I gripped the sheet, my chest tightening. "Please. Is my baby okay?" Tears blurred my eyes.

The doctor hesitated, then sighed. "I’m sorry. Your pregnancy was very delicate, and your body was already weakened and malnourished. You lost the baby before we got you here. You also suffered burns to your hand from hot oil."

The words sliced through me like knives.

"No…" I shook my head violently, clutching my stomach. "No, please, not my baby."

But her lips stayed pressed in a sorrowful line.

A sound tore from my throat, half scream, half sob. I shoved my fist into my mouth to muffle it, rocking on the bed as hot tears poured down my face. My bandaged hand pressed against my empty belly, desperate for a heartbeat that was no longer there.

The door banged open. I barely registered the commotion until a heavy hand grabbed my arm.

"There she is," Mrs Smith’s sharp voice declared. "She cooked that meal. Officer, arrest her."

I blinked at her, stunned. What?

"She’s faking illness," Mrs Smith added coldly. "There’s nothing wrong with her."

The officer glanced uncertainly at the doctor.

"We’re still running tests," the doctor said, frowning. "I can’t give results yet."

That didn’t matter. The officer yanked me upright, cuffing my wrists together.

"Wait.......what are you......?” My words broke into sobs. I was still in a hospital gown, my body weak, my womb aching with loss.

He dragged me down the hall, ignoring my protests. The cold bite of metal cut into my skin. Nurses and patients stared, whispering, but no one intervened.

The ride in the police car was a blur. My tears had dried, leaving me hollow, numb.

At the station, the officer barked orders. "Put her in a cell. No visitors allowed. She’s under investigation for attempted murder."

Attempted… murder? My mind reeled. What are they talking about? Whose murder? What did I supposedly do?

No one explained.

The cell door clanged shut behind me. I sank onto the hard cot, shivering in my hospital gown, bandaged hand throbbing.

The doctor’s voice echoed in my mind: I’m sorry, you lost the baby. Mrs. Smith’s orders followed like a poison whisper: Officer, arrest her.

The grief was too much. My knees buckled, and I fell to the cold floor, pressing my forehead against it.

A cry ripped from my throat, raw, broken, unrestrained.

It was the sound of a mother mourning, of a girl condemned, of a soul breaking into pieces.

Diana's POV

The days in the cell dragged like years.

Three days had passed, and no one had asked me a single question. No lawyer, no explanation, no hearing of my side of the story. Just silence.

They gave me one meal a day, barely enough to keep me upright. The rest of the time, I sat on the cold bench, my head lowered, my stomach twisting with hunger and grief. I had been thrown here straight from the hospital, still in the thin gown that barely covered me. My bandaged hand throbbed, the burn screaming for care, but no one paid attention.

When I first heard the voice outside the bars, I didn’t look up.

"Hey."

I ignored it. I had learned it was safer not to respond.

The scrape of metal came next, the lock turning. My head lifted just as an officer stepped inside. His expression was void of pity. Without a word, he yanked me to my feet and snapped cold cuffs around my wrists.

"Where are you taking me?" My voice cracked.

"Shut your mouth," he barked, shoving me toward the door. "One more word, and I’ll knock you out. We’ve been given freedom to deal with you however we like while you await trial."

The way he said it chilled me. Freedom. To hurt me. To silence me.

He dragged me into a bare room with a single chair. With a shove, he forced me onto it. My weak arm buckled, and I almost toppled. He stood over me, eyes narrowed with authority that reeked of cruelty.

"Here’s the deal." He tossed a sheet of paper on the table. Blank. Not a single word on it. "We need your signature for comparison. So you’ll sign here." His thick finger jabbed the bottom corner.

I frowned. "Why would I sign a plain piece of paper?"

His eyes flashed. "You’re not here to ask questions. Sign the damn thing."

I reached for the pen but hesitated. Something felt wrong. Too wrong. I looked up at him.

"I said, sign!" His hand lashed out across my face. The slap cracked like thunder. My head whipped sideways, and I tasted blood instantly. My lip split. A tooth loosened.

Tears stung my eyes, but I forced my shaking hand to pick up the pen that had clattered to the floor. My name spilled across the paper in trembling strokes.

He snatched it back with a sneer and walked out. Moments later, another officer came and hauled me back to my cell like a sack of dirt.

The next morning, they shoved a faded orange prison jumper into my hands.

"Change."

I thought the officer would leave, but he stayed. Leaning against the bars, arms folded, he watched. My skin crawled under his gaze, but I had no choice. I slipped out of the flimsy gown, clutching at what dignity I had left, and pulled the jumper on. He smirked, clamped cuffs on my wrists, and shoved me into the back of a police van.

I didn’t dare ask where we were going. I knew the punishment for asking questions.

When the van doors opened, the truth hit me. The courthouse loomed tall and merciless before me.

Inside, they led me into the courtroom. Shackles weighed down my wrists and ankles, clinking with every step. My bandaged hand throbbed so badly I suspected infection had set in, but the pain didn’t matter anymore. Nothing did.

The room buzzed with whispers. I forced my gaze forward, only to falter.

There they were. Mrs Smith, draped in black, a veil shadowing her face. Beside her sat Gordon, also dressed in mourning. His hand rested on hers, their united front as chilling as it was false.

I froze. Mourning. For whom?

"All rise," the clerk intoned.

The judge entered. I barely heard the formalities, my ears ringing.

"Proceed," the judge said briskly.

The Smith family’s lawyer stood, slick in a dark suit. He introduced himself, then began presenting what he called evidence. He laid out papers, photographs, and bottles. Each item, each word, carved deeper into my horror.

Poison. The cause of Mr Smith’s death, they claimed.

And the accused, me.

My knees buckled under me. My stomach dropped. Mr Smith was dead? When? How?

The lawyer’s voice was clear, practised, rehearsed. He painted me as a conniving wife, a gold-digger who poisoned her husband's father for his wealth. He spoke of motive, of opportunity, of confession.

Confession?

I hadn’t confessed to anything.

Then, like a nightmare, another man rose. A stranger. "Your honour, I represent the accused."

My lawyer? I stared at him, but he never looked my way. His words drove the last nail in my coffin.

"My client has admitted her actions privately," he declared solemnly. "We ask the court to temper justice with mercy. She acted out of desperation, not malice."

The room tilted. My lips parted, but no sound came. He was lying. They all were.

It lasted no more than half an hour. A mockery of justice. The Smiths sat serene, their grief convincing. Gordon’s gaze flickered toward me once, his lips curving in a smile so slight it made bile rise in my throat.

At last, the gavel fell.

"Guilty."

The word shattered me.

"Sentenced to life imprisonment."

Tears streamed down my face as the hammer struck wood. With that sound, my future was sealed.

They transferred me to Lynwood Women’s Prison. The intake process blurred past me: searches, papers, stripped dignity. They shoved me into a cell that stank of sweat and mildew.

Later, I unwrapped the bandage around my hand. My breath hitched. The burn looked worse than I remembered, raw, angry, oozing in places. It needed treatment, but I had nothing. Not even a clean cloth. I considered tearing my jumper, but the fear of infecting it worse stopped me. I left it bare, hoping air alone might do something.

By evening, they herded us into the dining hall for supper. My hunger gnawed, but I barely touched the food.

That was when an officer’s voice cut through. "Wilson. On your feet."

I obeyed and followed her out. We walked into a small room, and she frowned when she saw my hand. "What the hell is that?"

"Hot oil burn. Untreated." My voice was flat.

"You’ll need to file a health service request form." She shook her head. Then, almost as an afterthought, she handed me a phone. "But first, someone’s on the line for you."

I pressed it to my ear, cautious. "Hello?"

"Hello, Ms Wilson."

The voice froze my blood. Recognition hit instantly. It was my mother’s doctor.

I stiffened, trembling. Since my marriage, my contact with my mother had dwindled to rare, stifled phone calls. Once, I was arrested, even that was stolen from me. My heart raced. Why would he be calling me now?

His next words ripped the air from my lungs.

"Ms Wilson… I’m sorry to inform you that your mother passed away earlier today. Heart failure, brought on by extreme shock. We tried everything. But we lost her."

The phone slipped from my grip. My throat closed. "Okay," I whispered, blinking rapidly as my vision swam.

Shock surged through me like fire, then ice. My knees weakened. Darkness clouded the edges of my sight.

"Ms Wilson? Are you alright?" the officer asked sharply.

Her voice faded. My ears buzzed.

And then, light.

My mother appeared before me, radiant in a flowing white dress. Her face was peaceful, her smile soft. She looked younger, freer, unburdened by pain.

"Stay strong, my brave little angel," she said, her voice echoing like a melody. "Things will not be like this forever."

I reached for her, desperate, but before I could touch her, the darkness claimed me fully.

And I fell.

Diana's POV

When I opened my eyes, the first thing I felt was cold metal on my skin. My right wrist was handcuffed to the hospital bed, my ankles shackled together beneath the blanket. A man in a white coat stood beside me, flipping through a file as though I were no more than another case study. At the doorway, an officer leaned against the frame, his eyes fixed on me like the second he blinked, I'll vanish from my bed.

I turned my head, and that was when I saw it. On the television mounted in the corner of the ward, my picture flashed behind a newscaster. The volume was muted, but I could read the bold headline clearly enough:

"Diana Wilson Convicted of Murder. Sentenced to Life in Prison."

My stomach clenched. There it was, the final blow.

"Great, you’re awake," the man in the white coat said, lowering his file. "You suffered a vasovagal syncope. That means your heart slowed down, your blood pressure dropped, and you fainted. I understand you were on the phone when it happened. What exactly happened to you?"

He glanced at me expectantly. "I’m Dr James, by the way."

His words dragged me back to the phone call. My chest squeezed until I could barely breathe. I swallowed hard, but the tears came anyway, sliding into my ears.

"I lost my mum," I whispered, my voice cracking.

Dr James’s stern face softened. "I’m sorry to hear that." He hesitated, then frowned. "What about your left arm? It’s infected?"

I glanced down, startled. My arm was wrapped tightly in fresh bandages. Beneath it, a faint, throbbing heat burned.

"They told me I got burned by hot oil when I passed out," I said, forcing the words out past the lump in my throat.

He hummed low in his throat. "How many times have you fainted this month?"

"Twice," I murmured.

"Your vitals are stable, but your blood levels are low. And you’re fighting an infection." He scribbled something on his chart. "I’ll prescribe medication for your arm and something to help regulate your blood count. You need to rest. And eat. You can’t starve yourself, Diana."

I nodded mutely, but my heart wasn’t in it. The moment he left, I turned my face to the other side and let the tears flow until they drenched the pillow.

I was discharged the same day and sent back to prison, back to the cold stink of cement walls and rusted bars. My cell swallowed me whole, and I sat on the narrow bed, crying silently until my chest ached.

That night, my cellmates returned. They didn’t let me mourn. They beat me, fists, kicks, whatever they could manage. My grief was already killing me, but they carved new pain into my body. By dawn, I was half-dead, carted back to the hospital.

That became my life. Within a single month, I’d visited the hospital more times than I could count. Broken ribs, bruises, cuts. My body became a map of their cruelty.

One evening, while a nurse tended to my wounds, he paused. He was a young man with kind eyes, nothing like the guards or the women who prowled the prison halls. He looked me over as though puzzled.

"You don’t seem like a tough person," he said quietly. "So how did a weakling like you end up committing murder?"

I almost laughed, bitter and broken. "I didn’t. They framed me."

He raised his brows, but I kept going, surprising even myself. I had never told anyone this much before.

"I fainted while cooking. They said I got burned, but when I woke up, I’d lost my baby. They dragged me from the hospital straight to the police station. And now…" I raised my scarred left hand. "…now I’m here."

For a moment, I wished I hadn’t spoken. "Forget it," I muttered, turning my face toward the ceiling. "You don’t believe me anyway."

But he didn’t walk away. His voice was steady when he said, "I do believe you. You don’t look like someone who could do that. My intuition about people has never been wrong. And my gut tells me you’re innocent."

That startled me.

"The innocent never stay punished forever," he added. "Someone will come. Don’t lose hope. And whatever you do, don’t become like them." He gave me a small smile, then walked away, leaving me with his words echoing in my chest.

Back in prison, something hardened in me. I wasn’t suddenly strong, but I stopped letting myself be their punching bag. I learned to dodge blows, to make them hurt each other by mistake. I survived.

Days bled into weeks, weeks into months. I withdrew into myself, never seeking friendship, never trusting anyone. Only one girl insisted on talking to me.

"Hey, Diana," Rebecca called one afternoon as I sat alone in the yard, staring up at the sky.

I glanced at her. She was always smiling, always chattering like the silence scared her. I managed a weak smile.

"What are you doing here all alone?" she asked.

"Just admiring the sky," I said flatly.

She tilted her head. "You always admire the sky. What do you see up there?"

Before I could answer, two inmates passed by, whispering loudly enough for me to hear.

"I heard Gordon Smith’s been named the new heir. His father was a billionaire, and now Gordon gets it all."

My body went cold. Gordon. Of course, his name would find its way even into prison walls.

Rebecca leaned closer. "Interested in the Smiths, huh? I can tell you the latest." Her eyes sparkled like she knew exactly what she was doing.

I frowned at her. Sometimes she acted like she was trying too hard to impress me, as if I were her 'boyfriend'.

Still, I said, "Yes."

Her face lit up. "Okay! Gordon was officially named heir last week, and just three days ago, he announced his fiancée. Tracy Moore. She’s from a powerful, prestigious family."

Her words punched me in the chest, but I kept my face blank.

"Interesting," I said coldly, though inside I burned with rage.

And so the days turned. Rebecca became my unofficial informant. She updated me on the Smiths, on Gordon’s new life of wealth and glamour while I rotted behind bars.

A year passed this way.

One morning, the warden appeared outside my cell. "Diana Wilson. You have a visitor."

I blinked. "A visitor?"

Rebecca, who now shared my cell, gasped. "Wow, who would visit you after a whole year of silence?"

I shook my head, baffled. There was no one left. My mother was gone. I had no friends. No one.

The warden cuffed my wrists and marched me to the visitation room.

The door opened.

A man walked in, wearing a fine suit. I blinked twice, staring at him as he walked towards me. He was like a painting that came alive. It felt like everything was in slow motion as he approached me. For a moment, I forgot to breathe. He was too perfect, almost unreal, like the world had paused just to admire him.

I'll bet you a million dollars, if I had one, that God created him after he had rested from all the creation work he did. I stared at him with my eyes wide as I took in his features. A sharp cheekbone, strong, well-chiselled jawline, and lips that look like they were always on the verge of a secret. His masculine frame filled his suit, daring me to imagine what he would look like bare-chested. His hair was thick, neatly styled, the kind that could only come from careful grooming. His movement was like he was made for attention. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and graceful, with the quiet confidence of a man who didn’t need to raise his voice to own the room. His suit literally worshipped him.

"Hello," he said, his voice smooth but commanding. He extended his hand. "I’m Lucas Everhart. A Lawyer. From Everhart & Vale LLP. I’m interested in your case. It’s been a year, but it’s not too late to change things."

I stared at him, at his hand waiting between us. Was After everything, after all I’d lost, I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or cling to the fragile thread of hope he dangled before me.