My Fiancé Let Me Rot in Jail

I stood outside Colton Knight's study with a folder pressed against my ribs. The house was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of silence that made every sound feel like an intrusion.

I'd driven across Seattle in Friday evening traffic to deliver documents he needed for Monday's board meeting. He'd texted me at 6:47 p.m. — no greeting, just: *Bring the Zhao contract revisions to the house.* I'd been halfway through reheating leftover pasta. I turned off the stove, grabbed my keys, and drove.

Ten years of this. Ten years of dropping everything when he called. Ten years of convincing myself that proximity was enough.

I raised my hand to knock. Then I heard his voice.

Low. Warm. The kind of warmth I'd spent a decade waiting to hear directed at me.

"The engagement is a three-year obligation," Colton said. "Once it's discharged, I'm done. You know you're the only one who matters."

I stopped breathing.

Through the gap in the doorway — barely two inches, just enough — I could see the edge of his desk. His hand rested on the polished wood, relaxed. He was leaning back in his chair. Comfortable.

"I know it's hard," he continued. His voice dropped lower, softer. Intimate. "But it's temporary. Grandfather insisted. Three years to satisfy the board and the optics. After that, we're free."

A woman's voice responded. I couldn't make out the words, but I knew the cadence. Oakley Jimenez. His childhood friend. The woman who showed up at every company event, every family dinner, every moment that mattered.

The woman he looked at the way he never looked at me.

"I promise," Colton said. "You're the only one who matters."

My hands went cold. The folder slipped an inch before I caught it. The papers inside rustled.

I stepped back from the door. One step. Then another.

I set the folder on the hallway table. My fingers left faint impressions on the manila surface. I walked to the bathroom at the end of the hall, locked the door, and stood in front of the mirror.

My face looked the same. Pale. Tired. The same face I'd seen every morning for ten years.

I counted to sixty. Then I counted again. Then I turned on the faucet, washed my hands, dried them on the monogrammed towel hanging beside the sink, and walked back to the hallway.

The folder was still on the table. I picked it up, walked to the study, and knocked twice.

"Come in," Colton said.

I pushed the door open. He was alone now, seated behind his desk, reviewing something on his laptop. He didn't look up.

"Zhao contract revisions," I said. My voice sounded normal. I set the folder on the edge of his desk.

"Leave it there," he said. Still didn't look up. "Anything urgent?"

"No."

"Good. I'll review it tonight."

I turned to leave.

"Scarlet."

I stopped. My hand was on the doorknob.

"Make sure the board packet is ready by Monday morning. I want hard copies for all twelve members."

"Already done," I said. "They're in your office."

He nodded once. Dismissed.

I drove home in silence. No radio. No podcast. Just the sound of my tires on wet pavement and the occasional swish of another car passing.

I parked in my building's garage, rode the elevator to the fourth floor, unlocked my apartment, and sat on the couch in the dark.

Three-year obligation.

I'd known the engagement wasn't a love story. I wasn't stupid. But I'd told myself it was a beginning. That proximity would become familiarity. That familiarity would become something real.

I'd been wrong.

I sat there until my legs went numb. Then I got up, reheated the pasta, and ate it standing at the kitchen counter.

The next morning, I arrived at Knight Industries at 6:30 a.m. I made coffee in the executive break room, set Colton's schedule in order, prepared his briefing materials for the day's meetings, and answered the first three calls before he arrived at 7:45.

He walked past my desk without looking at me. I heard his office door close.

I opened the next file and kept working.

At 9:00 a.m., he buzzed me.

"Scarlet. My office."

I grabbed my tablet and walked in. He was standing by the window, looking out at the Seattle skyline. Rain streaked the glass.

"The Zhao revisions," he said. "Page fourteen. The liability clause needs adjustment. Flag it for legal."

"Done," I said. I made the note on my tablet.

He glanced at me. Brief. Assessing. Then he turned back to the window.

"That's all."

I walked out, updated the file, and forwarded it to legal with the flagged clause highlighted.

Colton didn't say thank you. He never did.

I sat at my desk and stared at the screen until the words blurred.

Three years.

I had two years and seven months left.