Scars Of Betrayal: The Fallen Heiress Returns

The Maybach took a sharp turn onto the highway ramp. Imogen's core muscles, weakened by years of poor nutrition and confinement, failed to brace her.

She slid across the smooth leather, her shoulder bumping into Ford's arm.

Ford recoiled. He shifted his body toward the driver's side door, pressing himself against the panel as if she were contagious.

Imogen scrambled back to her side, her face burning.

She frantically smoothed her messy, chopped-short hair. "Sorry. My leg... it's not strong."

"Did you learn nothing in there?" Ford asked. His voice was calm, conversational, which made it terrifying. "Or are you still playing the victim? Is this part of the act you'll be putting on for the board?"

Imogen stared at his profile. This was the man she had agreed to marry. The man she had protected by keeping her mouth shut during the trial. Protecting him, and by extension, the stability clause that was her only leverage to ensure Leo was safe.

"I was hurt inside, Ford," she said, her voice trembling slightly, a carefully calibrated tremor. "There were women... they were paid to hurt me. Someone paid the other inmates to target me."

Ford didn't blink. He checked the rearview mirror. "I know."

The air left Imogen's lungs. "You... know?"

"I authorized the payments," he said.

The world stopped. The hum of the tires, the heater, the radio-it all faded into a high-pitched ring in Imogen's ears.

"You?" she whispered.

Imogen looked down at her hands. She remembered the nights. The pillowcase filled with bars of soap. The kicks to her ribs. The boot that had crushed her knee.

Every blow had been an authorized corporate expense, signed off on by her fiancé.

Bile rose in her throat, hot and acidic. She clamped a hand over her mouth, gagging.

Ford hit the button for her window. The glass slid down. "Don't you dare throw up in my car."

The freezing wind roared into the cabin, whipping Imogen's hair across her face. She gulped down the fresh air, fighting the nausea, fighting the realization that her life hadn't been waiting for her. It had been liquidated.

They entered the city limits. Skyscrapers loomed overhead, gray monoliths against the gray sky.

Ford's phone buzzed on the console. The screen lit up: Bella.

His entire demeanor shifted. The tension in his shoulders dropped. He tapped the speakerphone button.

"Ford?" Bella's voice filled the car, sweet and airy, like spun sugar. "Did you get her? Is she okay?"

"I have her," Ford said. His voice was soft. Gentle. A tone Imogen hadn't heard in years. "Don't worry. I'll bring her in through the service elevator so the press doesn't swarm her."

"Oh, good," Bella sighed. "I just want her to be safe. I'm so nervous, Ford."

"You're doing great, Bella. I'll be there soon."

He hung up. The softness vanished instantly. He glanced at Imogen. "Bella is trying to protect you. She doesn't want you eaten alive by the reporters. She's too kind for her own good."

Imogen bit her lip so hard she tasted copper.

Kind. Bella wanted her in the service elevator so she wouldn't be seen entering the front door like a human being. Like a Willis. Like a shareholder.

The car descended into the underground garage of the Crawford building, where Ford kept his penthouse. He parked and killed the engine.

He got out without a word, walking toward the elevator bank.

Imogen fumbled with the door handle, her frozen fingers clumsy. She pushed the heavy door open and swung her legs out.

Her bad knee buckled when her foot hit the concrete, and she stumbled, catching herself on the car frame.

Ford was already at the elevator, holding the button. He tapped his foot.

"Move," he said. "You look like a beggar. It's embarrassing."

Imogen straightened her spine. It was the only thing she had left. She limped toward him, her chin held high, dragging her damaged leg.

She stepped into the elevator. The walls were mirrored.

For the first time, she saw them together.

Ford, in his bespoke suit, glowing with health and power.

And her. Gaunt. Pale. Her coat stained and wrinkled. Her eyes hollowed out dark circles.

"Don't speak tonight," Ford said, looking at her reflection instead of her. "Don't embarrass me."

Imogen met his eyes in the glass. The love she had held onto was dying, cell by cell.

In its place, something cold and hard was growing. Something that felt like strength.

"I won't," she said. Her voice was dead.

The elevator chimed. The doors slid open to the penthouse.