My manager, my friends… none of them came for me.
Only my assistant Dahlia came crying, her fingers curling desperately around the cold bars of my cell as if she could pry them open with sheer grief.
"Your album isn't pushing through," she sobs. "How can they do that? The agency is so quiet, and even Mr. Lim doesn't want to be associated with you anymore! How can they just abandon you like this?"
I manage a weak smile. It feels brittle, like it might crack off my face.
"Dahlia, the agency is a business. Why would they pour money into a lost cause? With a scandal this big, releasing my album would only drag them into the fire."
She wipes her tears with her already-soaked handkerchief, shaking her head as if refusing reality itself.
"But you didn't do it! They should trust you! Fight for you! We'll find evidence. We will. You were framed."
I bite my lower lip. Every day that passes makes hope feel more like a luxury I can't afford.
I want to fight. God, I want to. But it's hard to summon strength when your wrists and ankles are chained.
In one week, I've gone through three lawyers. Three. Each one backed out, murmuring excuses about caseloads or conflicts of interest, but we both know the truth.
Candice and Cora are running Logan's company now, and their influence reaches farther than any courtroom wall. I'm not poor, but next to them, my resources are paper shields.
My so-called friends haven't visited once. My agency is sprinting in the opposite direction now that I'm no longer profitable.
All I have is Dahlia. And though she tries to hide it behind her determined frown, this entire situation terrifies her.
"Being in prison doesn't seem that bad if you're cooking for me every day," I tease gently as I eat the home-cooked meal she smuggled past regulations with nothing but stubbornness and love.
She glares at me. "This isn't funny. They gave you some public defender who looks like he still checks YouTube tutorials before filing paperwork. Meanwhile the enemy has a small army of veteran lawyers. How is this fair?"
I can't help a small laugh. "He's not that bad."
"Stop smiling!" she snaps, eyes glistening. "How can you still smile right now?"
"Because even when everyone else leaves, you don't. You stay. And as long as someone believes me, I can keep going. I didn't do anything wrong, Dahlia. That's enough light to hold onto."
Her expression softens, trembling, and then she cries again—angry, helpless tears.
"How can they hurt you like this? You're sunshine. You can't even kill a mosquito without apologizing, and somehow they think you committed murder? This is insane."
That's life, though. It turns on you without warning. One snap, and everything you built, everything you trusted, crumbles. But you make a choice: surrender, or fight.
And even if the world thinks I've already lost, I choose to fight.
Dahlia studies me suspiciously. "What are you thinking?"
"I need you to deliver a message."
She nods, no questions asked, and later leaves with the letter I wrote, one addressed to someone who is definitely not a friend but might be my last resort.
Only after she's gone do I realize I forgot to tell her to bring me mosquito lotion.
Prison was never on my bucket list. It's uncomfortable, humid, and smells like despair. I wouldn't recommend it.
* * *
"Hey," someone calls as I step back into the cell.
It's one of the women I share the space with. There are six of us crammed into this narrow room.
"I'm curious," she says, eyes glinting with the kind of interest people reserve for scandal, not sympathy. "How did you kill your husband? They say you're famous. Are you an actress? A model?"
Her gaze drags from my shoes to my face, slow and mocking. "You look delicate. You couldn't have killed him physically. Unless he was already bedridden."
"I didn't do it."
"Hm. That's what everyone here says."
I raise both hands in surrender. "No, really. I didn't. I was framed by my sister-in-law."
"Why would she do that? Was your husband filthy rich or something?"
I sigh, unwilling to peel open the entire mess.
Shaking my head, I walk to the farthest corner of the cell and sink down, pulling my knees to my chest as if they can shield me from their curiosity.
Logan died, and I wasn't even allowed to attend his funeral. The moment the police laid out the so-called evidence, I knew someone had arranged this. Nothing about the case made sense unless someone wanted it to.
They didn't just twist the narrative after his death. They might have orchestrated it from the start. The possibility alone makes my stomach hollow out.
I can't understand how a person finds the heart to kill. For me, it's an unthinkable line. A cruelty I can't comprehend.
I stare out between the bars.
Two days have passed since I begged Dahlia to deliver that message. Two days with no reply.
Each silent hour chips away at my hope until the cold settles into my bones.
Late at night, when everyone else is quiet and the cell finally breathes softly, I let myself cry quietly, carefully, like I'm afraid my grief might disturb someone.
Footsteps echo down the hall.
I scrub my face with the back of my hand, straighten up, and look toward the sound.
"Elyn Hansley," an officer calls.
My heart jumps. "Yes?"
"Your case is dismissed," he announces, unlocking the bars. "You are free now."
My eyes widen, too startled to stand.
"Your husband is waiting for you outside."