Scars Of Betrayal: The Fallen Heiress Returns

Ford didn't invite her to sit. He pointed down the hall toward the guest suite.

"Go wash. There are clothes on the bed." He checked his Rolex. "We leave in forty minutes."

He turned and walked into the master bedroom, closing the door firmly.

Imogen walked into the guest bathroom and locked the door. Her legs gave out, and she slid down the marble wall until she hit the heated tile floor.

The luxury was overwhelming. The gold fixtures, the plush towels, the scent of lavender soap.

It was a violent contrast to the stainless steel toilet and concrete floor she had known for 1,095 days. She took a steadying breath, reminding herself this was just a different kind of prison, with softer walls.

She stood up on shaking legs and peeled off the trench coat. It fell to the floor in a heap. She pulled off the gray thermal shirt she had been released in.

She stood before the floor-to-ceiling mirror.

Imogen gasped.

She hadn't seen her full back in three years.

It was a map of pain. A jagged, pink scar ran from her left shoulder blade down to her ribs-a gift from a broken bed frame spring wielded by an inmate who wanted Ford's money.

Cigarette burns dotted her lower back like constellations.

Her right knee was swollen, a grotesque lump of bone and fluid.

She turned on the shower. She made it hot. Scalding.

She stepped in, biting back a scream as the water hit her raw skin. She grabbed a loofah and scrubbed.

She scrubbed until her skin turned angry red. She scrubbed to get the prison off. She scrubbed to get Ford's money off.

She stepped out, dripping, and wrapped herself in a towel. She walked into the bedroom.

Lying on the bed was a dress.

It was silver silk. Floor-length. Halter neck.

Imogen picked it up. The fabric was light as water. She held it up.

It was backless. Completely backless. The cut dipped dangerously low, exposing everything from the neck to the dimples of the lower back.

Imogen let out a dry, humorless laugh.

Bella. This was Bella's choice. She knew. She didn't know the extent of the scars, perhaps, but she knew Imogen had been hurt. This was a humiliation tactic. Show the world the damaged goods.

Imogen looked around. There were no other clothes. Her prison clothes were in a pile of filth in the bathroom.

She had no choice.

She dropped the towel and stepped into the dress. The silk felt like ice against her heated skin. She pulled it up and tied the halter behind her neck.

She turned to the mirror.

It was worse than she thought. The silver fabric shimmered, making the jagged, raised scars on her back look even more violent, more grotesque. Her short, choppy hair exposed her neck completely. There was nowhere to hide.

Imogen stared at herself. Fear rose in her throat, choking her. Then, slowly, it receded.

You already died, she told her reflection. You died in that cell. This is just the ghost. And ghosts have nothing to fear.

She found a tube of red lipstick on the vanity. It was old, dried out, but she scraped some onto her finger and pressed it to her lips. The crimson slash made her pale skin look porcelain, not sickly.

She looked like a warrior who had already lost the war but refused to lie down.

Footsteps echoed in the hall. Heavy. Impatient.

"Imogen!" Ford barked.

She took a deep breath. She opened the door.

Steam billowed out around her as she stepped into the hallway.

Ford was adjusting his cufflinks. He looked up, annoyance etched on his face. "About ti-"

His voice died in his throat.

His eyes went wide. He stared at her. First at the dress, clinging to her emaciated frame. Then, as she turned slightly to close the door, his gaze locked onto her back.

He saw the map. The burns. The jagged lines.

For a second, the mask slipped. Horror. Pure, unadulterated horror flashed in his eyes.