After Prison I’m Done Playing Second

I woke up in my bedroom. The wounds on my back throbbed.

Reginald was sitting by the bed, his eyes bloodshot.

"You're awake." He reached for my forehead. "How do you feel?"

I flinched away from his touch.

"Is that proof enough?" My voice was a rasp. "My innocence?"

Reginald froze, then gave a bitter laugh.

"Rosabella, just stop," he sighed, the sound utterly exhausted. "Leo is three years old. He saw you getting whipped and panicked. He said it to save you. You should be thanking him."

Thank him? Thank him for framing me, then changing his story when he got scared?

I stared at Reginald, and the last flicker of warmth in my heart went out.

"You still don't believe me."

"It's not about believing you or not—"

"It is!" I pushed myself up, sucking in a breath as the wounds on my back tore. "No matter what the truth is, you will never, ever believe me!"

Reginald's face hardened.

"Fine. Let's say you're telling the truth." He stood up, pacing the room. "But you almost got Felicia killed when she was pregnant, and now you've terrified Leo—"

"I didn't terrify him!"

"Enough!" Reginald spun around. "What's past is past!"

He took a deep breath, sat back down on the bed, and tried to pull me into his arms.

"Rosabella, you will always be my cherished princess." His voice turned soft again, that magnetic tone he thought was so charming. "As long as you stop going after Felicia, we can start over. Just like before."

Start over?

In his mind, everything was my fault.

I was the vicious woman "going after" Felicia.

I was the sinner who needed to be "forgiven."

"Felicia lost her parents when she was young. Our family took her in," Reginald continued. "She needs protection more than you do. You need to learn to be more generous."

I was framed, thrown in prison for three years, had my son taken from me, and now I had to be generous?

"Rosabella?" Reginald waited. When I didn't answer, he asked, "Are you listening to me?"

I looked at him. I had nothing left to say.

This man would never get it.

In his heart, Felicia would always be the poor, helpless girl who needed saving.

And I would always be the villain. The vicious sister who had to step aside.

Reginald waited a bit longer, his face growing dark.

"I get it." He stood up, his tone turning cold and hard. "You're still angry with me."

He walked to the door, then turned back.

"I'm going to Felicia's gallery. She was terrified by what happened last night. She needs someone."

Was that a threat? Or a test?

"Go," I said calmly.

Reginald's pupils shrank. He clearly hadn't expected that.

The old me would have cried, screamed, done anything to stop him from seeing Felicia.

The new me was perfectly still.

"You really don't care?" His voice was laced with disbelief.

"Why should I?"

Reginald just stood there, his face getting darker and darker.

"Fine. Good." He let out a cold laugh. The door slammed shut behind him.

I leaned back against the pillows and closed my eyes.

A few hours later, I woke up to a series of texts.

Four of them. All from Felicia.

[You bitch, can't you see Reginald really loves me?]

[Why are you still fighting me for him? Didn't you suffer enough in prison?]

[He promised he was coming to my gallery. What did you do to stop him?]

[I'm going to show you who Reginald really cares about.]

I deleted the messages. It was all so pathetic.

What was she even trying to do?

The wounds on my back were still bleeding slightly. The painkillers made me drowsy.

My eyelids grew heavy. I fell into a deep sleep.

I don't know how long I was out before a piercing alarm went off.

I shot up in bed. The air was thick with smoke.

Acrid, choking smoke.

I jumped out of bed and saw the orange glow of fire painting the sky outside my window.

The manor was on fire.

No, just my wing. The east wing.

"Damn it!"

I raced to the door, grabbing the handle. The metal was already hot. I twisted.

It wouldn't budge.

I peered through the crack. A flaming beam had collapsed, barricading the door. Trapping me.

"Reginald!" I pounded on the door. "Reginald! Help!"

I could hear chaos downstairs. Footsteps, shouting.

"Boss! Miss Felicia is trapped in the living room!"

"Quick! Get the fire extinguishers!"

"The west wing fire is under control!"

"What about the east wing?"

"The east wing is too dangerous! The whole thing's about to collapse!"

I kept pounding.

"Reginald! I'm in here! I'm trapped!"

My voice was weak, lost in the smoke.

Then, I heard my father’s voice, raw with panic. "Reginald, please! Get Felicia! Save her first!"

"Reginald..." My call was a choked whisper, eaten by the smoke.

Silence.

Then, footsteps. Hurrying away from me. Toward her.

The smoke grew thicker. I started coughing violently.

Flames were licking the edges of the room. The carpet caught fire.

I finally understood.

Felicia was behind this.

She wanted to show me who Reginald would save when it was a matter of life and death.

The room was getting hotter. My lungs felt like they were on fire.

As the flames reached the bed, I grabbed the crystal vase from the nightstand and threw it at the floor-to-ceiling window.

The sound of shattering glass was tiny against the roar of the fire.

Cold air rushed in, giving me a moment's relief from the smoke.

I carefully crawled toward the edge of the balcony.