Shotgun Wedding

Diana's POV

When I opened my eyes, the first thing I felt was cold metal on my skin. My right wrist was handcuffed to the hospital bed, my ankles shackled together beneath the blanket. A man in a white coat stood beside me, flipping through a file as though I were no more than another case study. At the doorway, an officer leaned against the frame, his eyes fixed on me like the second he blinked, I'll vanish from my bed.

I turned my head, and that was when I saw it. On the television mounted in the corner of the ward, my picture flashed behind a newscaster. The volume was muted, but I could read the bold headline clearly enough:

"Diana Wilson Convicted of Murder. Sentenced to Life in Prison."

My stomach clenched. There it was, the final blow.

"Great, you’re awake," the man in the white coat said, lowering his file. "You suffered a vasovagal syncope. That means your heart slowed down, your blood pressure dropped, and you fainted. I understand you were on the phone when it happened. What exactly happened to you?"

He glanced at me expectantly. "I’m Dr James, by the way."

His words dragged me back to the phone call. My chest squeezed until I could barely breathe. I swallowed hard, but the tears came anyway, sliding into my ears.

"I lost my mum," I whispered, my voice cracking.

Dr James’s stern face softened. "I’m sorry to hear that." He hesitated, then frowned. "What about your left arm? It’s infected?"

I glanced down, startled. My arm was wrapped tightly in fresh bandages. Beneath it, a faint, throbbing heat burned.

"They told me I got burned by hot oil when I passed out," I said, forcing the words out past the lump in my throat.

He hummed low in his throat. "How many times have you fainted this month?"

"Twice," I murmured.

"Your vitals are stable, but your blood levels are low. And you’re fighting an infection." He scribbled something on his chart. "I’ll prescribe medication for your arm and something to help regulate your blood count. You need to rest. And eat. You can’t starve yourself, Diana."

I nodded mutely, but my heart wasn’t in it. The moment he left, I turned my face to the other side and let the tears flow until they drenched the pillow.

I was discharged the same day and sent back to prison, back to the cold stink of cement walls and rusted bars. My cell swallowed me whole, and I sat on the narrow bed, crying silently until my chest ached.

That night, my cellmates returned. They didn’t let me mourn. They beat me, fists, kicks, whatever they could manage. My grief was already killing me, but they carved new pain into my body. By dawn, I was half-dead, carted back to the hospital.

That became my life. Within a single month, I’d visited the hospital more times than I could count. Broken ribs, bruises, cuts. My body became a map of their cruelty.

One evening, while a nurse tended to my wounds, he paused. He was a young man with kind eyes, nothing like the guards or the women who prowled the prison halls. He looked me over as though puzzled.

"You don’t seem like a tough person," he said quietly. "So how did a weakling like you end up committing murder?"

I almost laughed, bitter and broken. "I didn’t. They framed me."

He raised his brows, but I kept going, surprising even myself. I had never told anyone this much before.

"I fainted while cooking. They said I got burned, but when I woke up, I’d lost my baby. They dragged me from the hospital straight to the police station. And now…" I raised my scarred left hand. "…now I’m here."

For a moment, I wished I hadn’t spoken. "Forget it," I muttered, turning my face toward the ceiling. "You don’t believe me anyway."

But he didn’t walk away. His voice was steady when he said, "I do believe you. You don’t look like someone who could do that. My intuition about people has never been wrong. And my gut tells me you’re innocent."

That startled me.

"The innocent never stay punished forever," he added. "Someone will come. Don’t lose hope. And whatever you do, don’t become like them." He gave me a small smile, then walked away, leaving me with his words echoing in my chest.

Back in prison, something hardened in me. I wasn’t suddenly strong, but I stopped letting myself be their punching bag. I learned to dodge blows, to make them hurt each other by mistake. I survived.

Days bled into weeks, weeks into months. I withdrew into myself, never seeking friendship, never trusting anyone. Only one girl insisted on talking to me.

"Hey, Diana," Rebecca called one afternoon as I sat alone in the yard, staring up at the sky.

I glanced at her. She was always smiling, always chattering like the silence scared her. I managed a weak smile.

"What are you doing here all alone?" she asked.

"Just admiring the sky," I said flatly.

She tilted her head. "You always admire the sky. What do you see up there?"

Before I could answer, two inmates passed by, whispering loudly enough for me to hear.

"I heard Gordon Smith’s been named the new heir. His father was a billionaire, and now Gordon gets it all."

My body went cold. Gordon. Of course, his name would find its way even into prison walls.

Rebecca leaned closer. "Interested in the Smiths, huh? I can tell you the latest." Her eyes sparkled like she knew exactly what she was doing.

I frowned at her. Sometimes she acted like she was trying too hard to impress me, as if I were her 'boyfriend'.

Still, I said, "Yes."

Her face lit up. "Okay! Gordon was officially named heir last week, and just three days ago, he announced his fiancée. Tracy Moore. She’s from a powerful, prestigious family."

Her words punched me in the chest, but I kept my face blank.

"Interesting," I said coldly, though inside I burned with rage.

And so the days turned. Rebecca became my unofficial informant. She updated me on the Smiths, on Gordon’s new life of wealth and glamour while I rotted behind bars.

A year passed this way.

One morning, the warden appeared outside my cell. "Diana Wilson. You have a visitor."

I blinked. "A visitor?"

Rebecca, who now shared my cell, gasped. "Wow, who would visit you after a whole year of silence?"

I shook my head, baffled. There was no one left. My mother was gone. I had no friends. No one.

The warden cuffed my wrists and marched me to the visitation room.

The door opened.

A man walked in, wearing a fine suit. I blinked twice, staring at him as he walked towards me. He was like a painting that came alive. It felt like everything was in slow motion as he approached me. For a moment, I forgot to breathe. He was too perfect, almost unreal, like the world had paused just to admire him.

I'll bet you a million dollars, if I had one, that God created him after he had rested from all the creation work he did. I stared at him with my eyes wide as I took in his features. A sharp cheekbone, strong, well-chiselled jawline, and lips that look like they were always on the verge of a secret. His masculine frame filled his suit, daring me to imagine what he would look like bare-chested. His hair was thick, neatly styled, the kind that could only come from careful grooming. His movement was like he was made for attention. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and graceful, with the quiet confidence of a man who didn’t need to raise his voice to own the room. His suit literally worshipped him.

"Hello," he said, his voice smooth but commanding. He extended his hand. "I’m Lucas Everhart. A Lawyer. From Everhart & Vale LLP. I’m interested in your case. It’s been a year, but it’s not too late to change things."

I stared at him, at his hand waiting between us. Was After everything, after all I’d lost, I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or cling to the fragile thread of hope he dangled before me.