Chapter 3

Elena Hart sat down on her bunk with her legs crossed, and the rough blanket scratching her thighs. She'd been there for three weeks and it already felt like the cell had been swallowing her whole. The air was odd and uncomfortable with a bad smell from unwashed bodies, but she hardly noticed it anymore.

Her fingers traced the edge of her sketch book, it was the only thing they left her with after stripping her of everything else. Did she even have possession of anything? Well – she did, her sanity and human rights.

She hadn't made a sketch since the night Adrian's gray eyes turned cold and Vanessa's lie tore her life apart. The pencil felt foreign now and heavy with the weight of who she used to be.

She was nineteen, but she felt old, her eyes were dull and she looked tattered. The paintbrush necklace was still hung around her neck, that was a memory she couldn't bring herself to remove.

Every time she touched it, she saw him, his hands on her face and his voice promising her forever. Then she saw him laying still, letting them drag her away. 

Her chest hurt, and her head was aching. She wanted to hate him for everything – the heart break and betrayal of trust, but love still clung to her like a damp rot that didn’t want to let go.

Voices echoed down the prison wall. They were sharp and angry, probably a fight in the next block. Elena tensed as she was learning fast what her mind still resisted, in here, one could never be sure of safety. The first week, she had been shoved against the wall by a fellow inmate named Carla.

Carla was a wiry woman with scar across her lip. “Fresh meat”, Carla had sneered at her with her stenchy breath on Elena's face.

Elena was scared and tense, her heart beating so fast like its chambers would blow out but then something inside her snapped. She suddenly got strength from an unknown force.

And then she pushed her back, so hard surprising both of them. Carla had laughed and walked away with a clear message: show weakness, and you are done.

But now, Elena kept her head down, her body coiled, ready for the next threat. She had learnt how to move through the yard like a ghost, avoiding eyes and keeping her back to the wall.

But the real danger wasn't other inmates or the guards who leered too long. It was those quiet moments, when her mind replayed the gala, Vanessa's smirk, Clare's betrayal and Adrian's silence.

Those moments broke her piece by piece. That was what no one would wish to witness.

She opened her sketchbook, forcing herself to try. Her hand shook as she sketched a jagged line, then another one. It wasn't art. It was rage, guilt and betrayal sketched into the page.

She pressed harder, the pencil snapping in her grip. “Damn it” she muttered, tossing the broken pieces aside. She wasn't that girl anymore, the one who dreamed and swam in colours and art. Prison was craving and remoulding her into something else, something sharp and guarded, a survivor.

A guard banged on the bars,how come he didn't feel hurt from the banging?

“Hart! Visitor” he shouted.

The word hit like a bomb, pulling her upright. Visitors weren't common, not for her. Claire had tried once, but Elena refused to see her. The thought of facing those guilty eyes made her stomach churn, like her intestines were begging to come out.

Vanessa? Hell no, she did be basking her Victor somewhere, probably draped over some rich guy's arm. Adrian? Her heart did those scary flip flops, but she crushed the hope. He hadn't come in three weeks. Why would he now?

She followed the guard, her steps weird as the chains were clinking faintly from the cuffs. Maybe the chains liked the walk, she thought

The visiting room was a stark box with gray walls, a scratched table and an old looking bulb. And there sitting stiffly in a chair, was no other than Margaret Cole. Adrian's mother. Her silver hair was pulled in a tight ponytail. 

Her face had all these sharp looking angles and a mean disapproval like she stepped out of a boardroom instead of a prison.

Elena's knees weakened, but she forced herself to sit, her eyes meeting Margaret's cold eyes.

“What do you want?” Her voice came out rougher than she meant, laced with anger that she has been swallowing for weeks.

Margaret thinned her lips. “You are still wearing that necklace”. Her gaze moved to the paintbrush pendant, with her tone dripping with disdain. “Pathetic”.

Elena's hand flew to it, protective. “Say what you came to say”.

Margaret leaned forward, her voice low, “I came to make sure you understand your place. You were a mistake, Elena. A distraction and Adrian's better off without you.”

The words landed like blows, but Elena didn't flinch. “He didn't think so. Not until you and Vanessa filled his head with lies.”

Margaret's laugh was sharp without humour. “Lies? You were found with the poison. Your friend confirmed it and even Adrian saw the truth.”

“Claire lied,” Elena snapped,.her voice rising. “And you know it. You just wanted me gone.”

Margaret narrowed her eyes. “You are nothing, Elena. A nobody who thought she could climb into our world. You are lucky he's alive, you would've been facing worse than this.”

She gestured to the room, her diamond ring catching the light. “Stay away from my son.”

Elena clenched her hands under the table with her nails digging into her palms. “I didn't do it and deep down you know that. You just don't care.”

Margaret stood, smoothing her skirt. “Believe what you want but Adrian's done with you. Move on, or this place will be your home forever.” She turned and walked out, with her heels clicking like a count down.

Elena sat there shaking, and suddenly the air became suffocating and too hard to breathe. Margaret's words echoed Adrian's silence, each one a fresh cut to the wound in her heart.

She wanted to scream and tear the room apart, but she just pressed her hand to her face fighting the sob clawing up her throat.

On the other side of the city, Adrian stood in his office, a glass of whiskey in his hand that he hadn't touched. The city moved on below, but all he saw and thought of was Elena's face, her tears and her screams as they took her.

It'd been three weeks and the doubt was still eating him alive. He had thrown himself into work, into deals and power plays, but it didn't fill the hole she left.

Richard Hale knocked and entered, his face was carefully neutral. “Reeve called. They are pushing for a quick trial. He says the evidence is overwhelming.” He said.

Adrian held the glass tightly. “What about Vanessa's story? And Clare's?”

Richard hesitated, which was rare. “They are consistent. But…Claire's shaky. Reeve says she's been avoiding follow-ups.”

Adrian narrowed his eyes. “Shaky how?”

“Like she's hiding something.” Richard shrugged as though he didn't care but his voice was tight. “You want me to dig?

“Do it.” Adrian's voice was steel, but inside, he was fracturing. He had let Elena go without a fight, he had let his mother's whispers and the evidence blind him.

But what if he had been wrong? What if the girl he had loved, the only one who had ever reached him was innocent?

He kept the glass on the table, hard. “Find Claire, get the truth.”

Back in her cell, Elena lay on her bunk, staring at the ceiling. Margaret's visit had lit a fire in her,it was small but fierce. She wasn't nothing, she wasn't a mistake.

And she wasn't going to let them break her. She grabbed her sketchbook, her fingers steady now. She had survived this. And when she got out, she would find whoever framed her. Vanessa, Claire or maybe even Margaret, and make them face her.

The pencil scratched the page, a rough sketch taking shape: a pair of eyes, gray and stormy, staring back at her. It was Adrian's eyes. How come, of everything she needed to sketch, why would it be Adrian's eyes?

She hated that she still loved him. Even hated that she still hoped.