Husband, Why Did You Send Me to Prison for Her?

The memory vanished, and I slowly opened my eyes. They felt sore, dry, and faintly burning. How long had it been since I'd cried?

Years.

In prison, I'd cried until there was nothing left. The prison doctor once told me my tear glands had been permanently damaged.

"You'll probably never cry normally again."

At the time, I hadn't cared. There was nothing left worth crying over.

I turned toward the window. The street outside was unfamiliar, lined with luxury restaurants and upscale storefronts.

Before I could ask where we were, the car door opened and bright sunlight flooded the interior.

A familiar figure appeared.

Alaric.

My husband.

Eight years had passed, yet he looked exactly the same. Tall, handsome, powerful, his sharp features still carrying the confidence of a man who could alter countless lives with a single command.

A smile spread across his face when he saw me.

"Olivia," he said warmly. "Hurry up and get out."

He extended a hand toward me.

"Marga spent all day preparing a welcome party for you. You're the only one we're waiting for."

The words almost made me laugh.

Alaric was still the same. Gentle, patient, and kind.

At least when it came to Margaret.

His hand settled naturally on my shoulder, and my body stiffened immediately.

Before I could move away, a cheerful voice rang out nearby.

"Olivia!"

The moment Margaret appeared, I noticed Alaric quietly remove his hand from my shoulder, as if he'd been caught doing something wrong.

I lowered my eyes.

Yeah, right.

Margaret hurried over, her eyes already red and shining with tears. Before I could avoid her, she grabbed my hand.

"Olivia," she said in a trembling voice, "I'm sorry about everything that happened before. I know I've hurt you, I killed your brother and I've regretted it every day. I really wanted to apologize properly."

I didn't respond.

The atmosphere instantly became awkward.

Margaret bit her lip, looking even more pitiful than before.

As expected, Alaric stepped in."Marga got up before sunrise today," he said, his expression softening immediately. "She spent the whole day choosing a venue and decorating everything herself."

Margaret quickly shook her head. "Alaric, don't say that."

But he ignored her protest. "She hasn't even eaten yet," his gaze fixed on her. "She was worried everything wouldn't be perfect."

Only then did he look at me.

"Olivia, she's genuinely trying to apologize."

"I really am," Margaret added immediately.

Together, they made it sound like I was the unreasonable one, like eight years in prison had been nothing more than a misunderstanding.

Nobody asked how I'd survived.

Nobody asked what prison had done to me.

Nobody asked how many nights I'd cried myself to sleep or how it felt to be framed for my brother's death.

Nobody cared.

All they cared about was whether Margaret felt guilty enough.

I was about to say something when Alaric suddenly grabbed my wrist.

"Come on," he said.

Without waiting for my response, he led me toward the restaurant.

Before we even stepped inside, voices drifted through the door. They were loud, clear, and impossible to ignore.

"If it wasn't for Alaric and Marga, I wouldn't even be here. Imagine throwing a welcome party for a murderer."

Someone snorted.

"Right? What exactly are we celebrating? The fact that she got away with killing her own brother?"

A burst of laughter followed.

My fingers slowly curled into my palms.

"I warned Alaric years ago," another person said. "A girl from that kind of background was never going to be clean."

"Exactly."

"I heard her brother abused and fucking rape her for years. Since she was little all the way through high school."

My chest tightened.

Every word was a lie, but they kept talking.

"They said she finally snapped and killed him."

"That's not even the worst part." The speaker lowered their voice dramatically. "I heard she also killed her parents because they always favored the older brother."

"What?! Really?"

"Yeah. Apparently she hated them. Then suddenly they died in a car accident. Tell me that's not suspicious."

"I knew it."

"God, she's terrifying."

The rumors grew louder and more confident, as though repeating a lie often enough could somehow make it true. Nobody mentioned that my brother had never touched me. Nobody mentioned that my parents died because their brakes failed. Nobody mentioned that Margaret was the one who had spent years feeding these stories to anyone willing to listen.

Why would they?

The truth was boring.

The lie was entertaining.

Beside me, Alaric suddenly froze. His expression darkened, and a second later he wrapped an arm around me. One hand covered my ear while the other pulled me tightly against his chest.

It was a familiar gesture.

For years, whenever rumors surfaced about my family, whenever I broke down crying, Alaric would do exactly this. He'd shield me from the world, hold me close, and promise everything would be okay. Back then, I believed he was my safe place. My protector. My home.

Funny, wasn't it?

The man who had taught the world to stab me was now trying to shield me from the knife.

The trembling he expected never came.

Slowly, I lifted my hands. Prison had left them thin and bony. Without hesitation, I pushed him away.

Alaric stared at me. His eyes widened slightly, and for a moment I saw shock, confusion, maybe even hurt.

I knew exactly what he was thinking.

There was a time when hearing those rumors would've destroyed me. There was a time when he was the one who comforted me.

“Nobody's gonna hurt you again, Liv. I'll protect you. I swear on my life.”

And I had believed every word but now, I didn't need his protection anymore.

Something shifted in Alaric's expression. For a brief moment, he looked almost suffocated. Then anger flashed across his face, directed not at me but at the people inside.

The next second, he kicked the restaurant door open.

The loud bang silenced the entire room.

Everyone immediately turned pale.

Alaric stepped inside like a storm, tall, broad-shouldered, and terrifying. The room suddenly remembered why he was feared.

His cold gaze swept across the room.

"If you've got something to say, say it in front of me."

Nobody answered.

His voice turned colder. "Olivia's my wife."

The room remained silent.

"She didn't ask for any of the shit that's happened to her. So if you've got a problem with her, bring it to me."

Nobody moved.

"What happened? You people were talking pretty damn loudly a minute ago."

Several guests lowered their heads.

"Don't want to be here? Then leave. Nobody's forcing you."

The pressure in the room became suffocating.

"And if I hear anyone talking behind her back again, we're gonna have a different conversation."

That finally shut everyone up.

Across the room, Margaret's smile nearly cracked. For a split second, jealousy flashed across her eyes before she quickly buried it beneath a pitiful expression.

Picking up a glass of wine, she walked toward us.

"Alaric..." she said softly.