I Went to Jail to Save His First Love

The garbage truck dropped me off near the villa area. My legs, battered from beatings in prison and worn down by relentless labor, throbbed with every step. The nerve damage meant long walks were agonizing, but there was no other way.

When I finally reached the villa and opened the door, the sound of cheerful voices greeted me.

"Auntie, try this. I baked these cookies myself. Tell me if they taste good," Irene's sweet voice floated from the living room.

I stepped inside, limping, and saw her feeding cookies to Mrs. Bolton, who smiled warmly at the gesture. Gilbert sat on the sofa, watching the scene with a faint, tender smile—a smile that once belonged to me.

The moment he noticed me, the warmth in his eyes vanished. The room’s cozy atmosphere froze, replaced by tension.

“Amelia,” he spat, his tone sharp and laced with disdain. “Where have you been fooling around? You just got out of prison, and now you can’t even come home on time? What’s that smell on you? It stinks. Go clean yourself up.”

The man who once cared for me so tenderly now looked at me as though I were dirt beneath his shoes.

Mrs. Bolton’s expression mirrored his contempt. Once, she welcomed me into this home with open arms. Now, her eyes were cold, brimming with disgust.

I limped to the bathroom, the weight of their stares pressing against my back. After washing off the stains of the day, I returned to the living room, where Irene awaited me with a plate of cookies.

“Amelia, try these,” she said, her voice saccharine. “I baked them myself with eggs and milk. They’re my best batch yet.”

I took the plate but didn’t eat. The word egg triggered a visceral reaction. Memories from prison flooded back—being forced to the ground, licking eggs crushed into filth. My stomach churned violently, and nausea clawed at my throat.

“Amelia, you don’t like them?” Irene’s voice was laced with feigned innocence, her eyes glinting with malice. “They’re really good. Everyone says so.”

Before I could respond, Gilbert’s temper flared.

“Amelia,” he barked, “don’t put on airs. Irene baked those for you out of kindness. The least you can do is show some gratitude. Stop being so ungrateful!”

Ungrateful. The word stung, but I was too weary to argue. I had no airs left to put on—prison had stripped them all away.

“I don’t like eggs,” I said quietly, my voice devoid of emotion.

“Don’t talk nonsense. How could I not know you don’t like eggs?” Gilbert snapped, his voice dripping with impatience. “You’re just looking for trouble, aren’t you? Blaming me for everything?”

Before I could respond, he grabbed my hand in frustration, jerking it so hard that the plate of cookies toppled to the floor, the sound of them shattering echoing through the room.

I remained silent. It was a habit I’d developed in prison—silence was safer than words. Seeing my lack of reaction, his anger faltered, as though he didn’t know where else to direct it.

An awkward tension filled the air, broken only by the loud growling of my stomach. It betrayed me, exposing the fact that I hadn’t eaten anything since my release.

Mrs. Bolton’s eyes flashed with disdain as she spoke, her words thinly veiled in mockery. “Amelia, we assumed you’d eaten outside since you were gone so long. We didn’t save you a plate. There are some leftovers in the kitchen. Why don’t you make do with those?”

Moments later, the nanny brought out a bowl of cold rice and a dish that looked like a haphazard mix of scraps. She placed it on the table with an indifferent expression, as though feeding a stray dog.

I stared at the rice for a moment, my chest tightening. It had been so long since I’d seen clean, untouched white rice. In prison, rice wasn’t food—it was a weapon of humiliation, spat on or thrown to the floor for me to scavenge. Eating slowly meant eating nothing at all.

Driven by hunger, I sat at the table and began eating ravenously, shoveling food into my mouth as though it might vanish at any second.

“Look at yourself, Amelia,” Gilbert sneered, his tone laced with contempt. “Do you even remember what it means to be a lady?”

I paused briefly, my hand trembling. The words stung, but I swallowed them down along with the rice. The truth was clear, I wasn’t a lady anymore. I wasn’t the noble daughter of the Byrd family. I wasn’t anything but the murderer everyone believed me to be.

Nobility couldn’t fill an empty stomach. I didn’t need their approval—I just needed to survive, to live for my father.

I ate until my stomach felt like it would burst. The pain was unbearable, and I clutched my midsection, rushing to the bathroom. Moments later, I was hunched over the sink, retching violently.