บททั้งหมดของ From Prison To Power: The Ex-Wife's Vengeance : บทที่ 1 - บทที่ 10

Chapter 1Isabella's POV The diamond necklace felt like a cold, glittering noose around my throat.I stood before the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the Rossi mansion, staring at the woman I had become. My silk gown, a deep emerald green, hugged a body that hadn’t slept properly in months. Every line on that dress, every stitch in my reputation, and every zero in the Rossi bank account had been put there by me.I was Isabella Rossi. To the world, I was the lucky commoner who had captured the heart of Antonio Rossi, the "King of Business." To the Rossi family, I was a tool. A ghostwriter for a man who didn't know how to close a deal without my whispers in his ear."You’re still not ready? Typical. Always keeping him waiting. I still marvel how he is still stuck up with your good for nothing self." That voice that I recognized so much retorted The door to my dressing room didn't just open; it was invaded. Sophia Rossi, my mother-in-law, stepped in. Her eyes swept over me with a look of p

Chapter 3Isabella's POV The transport van was not a vehicle; it was a metal coffin on wheels, designed to bury the living.There were no windows to watch the world I was leaving behind. There was only the suffocating, humid heat of four other women crammed into a space meant for two, and the overwhelming stench of unwashed bodies, stale cigarettes, and the sharp, acidic scent of pure, unadulterated fear.I sat in the far corner, my knees pulled to my chest, my wrists raw where the steel shackles bit into my skin with every pothole we hit. Every jolt of the van was a reminder of my new reality. The emerald silk of my gala dress, now torn and stained with the grime of a holding cell rubbed against my skin like sandpaper.I wasn't crying. I couldn't. My tear ducts felt as though they had been cauterized, burned shut by the image of Mia’s small, distorted face as she pointed her finger at me in that courtroom. “I hate you! I want Clara to be my mommy!”The words played on a loop in my

Chapter 5Isabella's POV The laundry room of Blackwood Maximum Security was a glimpse into the bowels of hell.It was a cavernous, humid tomb that smelled of industrial-strength bleach, wet concrete, and the sour, pervasive scent of unwashed despair. Steam hissed from the pipes above like a choir of angry vipers, blurring the edges of the room until everything looked like a fever dream.I shoved another heavy, sodden sheet into the industrial dryer, my muscles screaming in a rhythmic, throbbing protest. Every movement was a struggle. It had been two days since I signed the divorce papers, two days since I had officially signed away my name, my child, and my soul.I was no longer Isabella Rossi. I was a ghost inhabiting an orange jumpsuit. A ghost with a target painted on her back.I felt the shift in the room before I heard it. It was a sudden, unnatural stillness, the kind that precedes a predatory strike. The constant hum of the massive machines seemed to drop an octave, and the o

Chapter 7Isabella's POV The silk sheets felt like a mockery against my skin. Only hours ago…or was it days?I had been sleeping on a thin, urine-stained mat in a cell that smelled of despair. Now, I was swaddled in the luxury of a man who dealt in the currency of souls.Silas Vane didn't walk; he prowled. He returned to my bedside an hour after our initial talk, carrying a crystal decanter and two glasses. The amber liquid caught the firelight, looking like molten gold."You look better," he said, his voice a low vibration that seemed to hum in the very marrow of my bones. "The color is returning to your cheeks. Rage is a far more effective medicine than anything my doctors can prescribe.""Rage is all I have left to breathe," I rasped, struggling to prop myself up. The stitches in my side pulled, a sharp reminder of the laundry room floor, but I didn't wince. I wouldn't show weakness to a man like Silas.He sat in the velvet chair, crossing one long leg over the other. "Let us di

Chapter 9 Silas Vane’s POVI have spent my life collecting things that are broken.There is a specific kind of beauty in a shattered diamond that a polished one can never possess. A polished stone is predictable; it has already met its potential. But something shattered? It has the capacity to be reforged into something lethal.Standing in the observation gallery of the training hall, I watched her. Isabella Rossi…no! Valencia Knox stood in the center of the matted floor. She was wearing simple black athletic gear that clung to a frame still too thin from prison rations, her face still partially obscured by the delicate surgical tape from my surgeon's masterpieces.She looked fragile. Like a gust of wind might turn her to dust. But when she looked up at the glass where I stood, I saw it. That silver-cold fire. It was the only thing keeping her upright."She’s not ready, Silas," a voice grunted beside me.It was Dante. My lead enforcer. A man who was essentially a mountain of scar t