After My Wronged Wife Became a Prisoner

The first year of my imprisonment passed in a blur of pain and betrayal. Each month, Rohan would appear like clockwork, his military boots clicking against the concrete floor announcing his arrival before I could see him.

"More evidence," he would say, his voice devoid of emotion as he slid another manila envelope through the bars.

I learned to dread those envelopes. Inside were always the same types of fabrications—doctored photographs showing me meeting with "enemy agents," transcripts of conversations I'd never had, bank statements for accounts I'd never opened.

"This isn't real," I pleaded, spreading the latest batch of lies across the small metal table. "Rohan, you know me. You know I would never betray you or our country."

His eyes, once warm with love, now regarded me with clinical detachment. "The evidence speaks for itself, Alaia."

"Then explain this to me," I begged, pointing to a photograph of me supposedly meeting with foreign operatives. "Look at the date stamp. I was in surgery that entire day. You were there!"

A flicker of something—doubt? recognition?—crossed his face before disappearing behind his military mask. "You're resourceful. You found ways to deceive even me."

Each visit brought new cruelty. He would show me newspaper clippings of himself and Antonella at military galas, society events, charity functions—all the places where I should have been standing beside him.

"Antonella looks lovely in that dress," he remarked casually, as if discussing the weather rather than twisting a knife in my heart.

"She's wearing my sapphire necklace," I whispered, recognizing the jewelry that had been my grandmother's.

His jaw tightened. "It looks better on her."

My letters to him were returned unopened. My requests to speak with former colleagues were denied. The world outside these walls seemed to be erasing me entirely.

---

The prison's harsh conditions began to take their toll. The thin mattress did little to cushion the concrete slab beneath it. The windows were drafty, and the blankets were thin and threadbare.

"Prisoner Martin," the guard would call each morning, "time for work detail."

Despite my weakened condition, I was assigned to laundry duty—lifting heavy baskets of wet uniforms, operating industrial machines that vibrated painfully against my still-healing body.

"I need medical attention," I told the prison doctor during my quarterly examination. "The pain in my abdomen hasn't subsided. Something isn't right."

He barely glanced at me before closing his clipboard. "Emotional weakness manifesting as physical pain. Common among prisoners with guilty consciences."

"But I'm not guilty," I insisted. "And I was pregnant when—"

"Next," he called, already moving to the next cell.

When I collapsed during work detail one day, two guards dragged me back to my cell.

"The general's treasonous wife can't even handle laundry," one mocked, dropping me unceremoniously onto the floor.

Outside these walls, Ace Moreno was taking risks that could end his military career. He visited the prison under the pretense of official business, but his eyes searched the grounds, memorizing security protocols, noting guard rotations.

Something wasn't right about Alaia's arrest, and he was determined to find out what.

---

The second year brought Antonella herself to my cell door.

She arrived like royalty visiting the peasants—designer dress perfectly pressed, pearls gleaming at her throat, her smile sharp as broken glass.

"Alaia," she cooed, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "Still enjoying your accommodations?"

I stood slowly, gripping the bars for support. "What do you want?"

"To share some wonderful news." She pressed a glossy photo through the bars. It showed her lounging in my former bedroom, wearing my silk robe. "Rohan and I are expecting. A boy, the doctor says."

The photo slipped from my fingers. "That's impossible. The doctors said I couldn't—"

"Oh, I made sure of that," she interrupted, leaning closer. "Did you know there are specific impact velocities that cause maximum damage to reproductive organs while leaving other injuries survivable?"

My breath caught. "You planned it."

"Of course I planned it." Her smile widened. "I researched everything—the perfect angle, the exact speed, even the best hospital to send you to afterward. One that would save your life but ensure you'd never give Rohan children."

She produced another photo—herself sitting at the head of the dining table in what had been my home, wearing my mother's pearl earrings.

"I've taken everything that was yours," she said softly. "Everything except your life. That would have been too merciful."

Something inside me snapped. With strength I didn't know I still possessed, I lunged through the bars, my hands reaching for her throat.

"Traitor!" I screamed. "Murderer!"

Guards rushed forward, pulling me back as Antonella stepped safely out of reach. Their batons fell against my ribs, my legs, my arms—anywhere they could strike without leaving visible bruises.

Through swollen eyes, I saw Antonella watching with satisfaction as darkness crept into the edges of my vision.

"Such spirit," she murmured as consciousness slipped away from me. "No wonder Rohan was so obsessed with punishing you."

The last thing I heard before blackness claimed me was her light laughter echoing down the corridor.