The Billionaire's Broken Doll Returns

Jane's eyes snapped open.

She gasped for air, her chest heaving against the thin, hard mattress of the prison cot. The deafening roar of the car explosion still echoed in her ears, vibrating against her eardrums.

Cold sweat soaked her hairline. She wrapped her arms tightly around her ribs, shivering uncontrollably in the damp air of Cell Block D. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force the image of Blaire Lowe screaming in the flames out of her mind.

The metal bed frame above her violently shook.

A heavy boot kicked the bottom of Jane's mattress.

Tasha Riggs leaned halfway over the top bunk. Her face was twisted into a vicious sneer.

"Having nightmares about the people you killed again, Hanson?" Tasha mocked, her voice thick with malice.

Jane did not argue. She lowered her head and curled her knees closer to her chest. She was used to this. She absorbed the verbal abuse the same way she absorbed the cold air-it was simply part of her existence now.

Her silence only irritated Tasha more.

Tasha swung her heavy legs over the side and dropped to the concrete floor. She reached out and grabbed a fistful of Jane's dry, brittle hair.

"Look at me when I talk to you," Tasha snarled, yanking Jane's head back. "You think you're better than us? You're a disease. A rich little murderer."

A sharp pain burned across Jane's scalp. Her eyes watered, but she bit down hard on her lower lip. She refused to let out a single sound.

Tasha let out a disgusted breath and shoved Jane hard.

Jane's frail body hit the wet, freezing concrete floor. Her knees slammed into the ground. The skin scraped open, and warm blood began to ooze down her shin. She stayed on the floor, perfectly silent.

Tasha walked over to Jane's small plastic storage bin and kicked it over.

A few pathetic belongings scattered across the floor. A worn toothbrush. A half-empty tube of toothpaste. And a photograph with yellowed edges.

It was the only picture Jane had of herself with her adoptive parents before she went to prison.

Tasha saw it. Instead of just stepping on it, she snatched the photograph off the floor with a wicked grin. She walked over to the rusted, foul-smelling toilet and deliberately used the corner of the picture to scrape a layer of yellow grime off the rim. "You still think you're a high-society princess, Hanson?" Tasha mocked, tossing the soiled, ruined photograph directly onto Jane's bleeding knees. "You're nothing but a dirty little rat who belongs in the sewage."

Jane's pupils shrank. The numbness shattered.

She lunged forward, throwing her upper body toward Tasha's foot to snatch the photo away.

Tasha laughed. She swung her arm back and delivered a brutal backhand across Jane's left cheek.

The force snapped Jane's head to the side. Her split lip tore open again. The thick, metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth.

Tasha pointed a thick finger at the metal toilet in the corner of the cell. It smelled like stale urine and rust.

"Take your toothbrush," Tasha ordered. "Lick the grime off the rim."

Jane wiped the blood from her chin with the back of her hand. She did not fight back. Her face was completely blank as she picked up her toothbrush and crawled toward the toilet.

In her mind, she owed this to Blaire. This was the punishment she deserved for the accident. She welcomed the degradation.

Just as Jane bent her head toward the bowl, the heavy metal lock on the cell door let out a loud, grinding screech.

Hank Dugan, the block guard, stood on the other side of the iron bars. He slammed his nightstick against the metal. The ringing sound bounced off the concrete walls.

"Inmate 4098," Hank called out, his voice flat and bored.

Tasha immediately backed away from Jane. She crossed her arms, a smug smile spreading across her face. She thought Jane was finally getting sent to solitary confinement.

Hank looked down at Jane kneeling by the toilet. "Your parole application cleared. You're getting released today."

The plastic toothbrush slipped from Jane's fingers. It hit the floor with a hollow clatter.

Her entire body froze.

Getting out was not freedom. Getting out meant she had to exist in the same world as Carson Long again. The man who hated her more than anyone else alive.

A cold, suffocating terror gripped her heart.

"Hurry up and pack your trash," Hank snapped, annoyed by her lack of movement. "We got paperwork to do."

Jane moved like a machine. She slowly reached out and picked up the dirty, crumpled photograph from the floor. She tucked it carefully into the pocket of her pants.

Tasha stared at her, her jaw dropping in jealous disbelief.

Jane followed Hank out of the dark, humid cell.

As they walked down the long corridor, inmates pressed their faces against the bars. They spat at her feet. They screamed vile curses, calling her an arsonist and a killer.

Jane kept her chin tucked to her chest, accepting every drop of their hatred until they reached the property room.

She changed into the clothes she had worn five years ago. The fabric hung loosely off her emaciated frame, making her look small and pathetic.

Hank slid a thin paper envelope across the counter.

"Twenty dollars gate money," Hank said. "And the address to your halfway house in Queens. Don't miss your check-in."

Jane picked up a cheap pen. Her hand shook violently as she signed her name on the release form. The ink scratched a jagged, uneven line across the paper.

The final steel door buzzed loudly. It slid open.

Blinding, unfiltered sunlight hit Jane's face. She squeezed her eyes shut, stepping out into a freedom that felt exactly like a death sentence.