Chapter 1: Free？
"I should've killed you when I had the chance," Julian snarled, his hot breath scorching my neck. "Kneel, Elena. Open wide and take it all!"
Framed by that viper Vanessa and my golden-boy ex-husband, I lost two years in prison—my family, my sweet Elian. Released with nothing, I begged on my knees—stripping in dingy clubs, giving blowjobs in Julian's penthouse, all for money to save our dying son.
But the lies piled up: forged DNA, stolen organs, my boy's death. I donated a kidney to Vanessa, thinking it'd save him—only to learn Julian let Elian die.
Grief shattered me. I jumped from a building, clutching Elian's urn. Now, I watch karma strike: Vanessa confessing in the rain, her daughter's tragic plunge, her arrest. Julian, wracked with guilt, takes his own life.
They destroyed me once. Now, I'll make them pay in blood.
Elena's POV
Today was my release day from prison, but no one showed up—not my parents, not my son Elian, not even my ex-husband.
"You're free to go, Cross." The guard's voice was ice-cold. Free. What a joke.
Two years ago, when they slapped those cuffs on me and dragged me into this hellhole, even my own parents turned their backs. No visits, no letters, nothing. I was dead to them long before my sentence ended.
The bus rattled up, and I climbed on with shaky hands.
I slumped in the back and pulled out the crumpled envelope Mrs. Gables had slipped me during last month's visit. Inside was Elian's latest drawing—a crayon mess of two stick figures holding hands under a rainbow.
Tucked beneath it: adoption papers. The requirements hit like a sucker punch: "Prospective parents must demonstrate financial stability with assets of at least $1,000,000."
One million bucks.
That bastard Julian had made sure I walked away from our divorce with nothing. "Count yourself lucky I'm not suing for damages," his lawyer had sneered. "After what you did to Vanessa."
What I did to Vanessa. That lying snake who'd shown up out of nowhere with her sob story and her kid, claiming Julian was the dad.
The bus jerked to a stop downtown, yanking me back. I needed a job. Any job. Fast.
A "HELP WANTED - HIGH PAY" sign caught my eye.
I pushed through the heavy doors and froze.
"You lost, sweetheart?" The manager eyed me like I was trash. Behind him, women in skimpy outfits worked the stage while suits tossed cash.
"I saw the sign," I said, hating the crack in my voice. "I need work."
He barked a laugh. "Look at you—skin and bones, face like death. The girls here are top-shelf."
"Please," I said, swallowing bile. "I'll clean. Anything."
He was shaking his head when a voice cut in.
"Well, well. If it isn't the infamous Elena Cross."
I turned slowly. Julian. Dark hair slicked back, blue eyes cold as steel. The man who'd once whispered he loved me now looked at me like dirt.
"Julian." His name stuck in my throat. I didn't have the right to it anymore.
"Just got out, huh? Thinking of stripping?"
The room went quiet, sensing the tension. I felt their stares like vultures.
"I need money," I muttered.
Julian yanked out his phone. "Bring the case from the car." His eyes locked on mine. "You want cash, Elena? Here's the deal: a hundred grand for every piece of clothing you take off. Right here. Right now."
The crowd erupted in cheers and whistles. Someone started chanting, "Strip! Strip! Strip!"
A hundred grand each. My hands shook as I shrugged off my jacket. The thin prison-issue shirt hid nothing. Next came the shirt, then the jeans. I stood there in my ratty bra and underwear, arms crossed, while they hooted.
Three pieces. Three hundred grand.
The crowd erupted in cheers and whistles. "Come on, sweetheart, show us those perky tits!" one guy yelled, laughing. "Yeah, drop the bra—make it worth our while!" another chimed in. "Panties too? Hell, for that view, we should double the cash!" The room buzzed with crude suggestions, egging me on.
My fingers trembled as I reached behind to unhook my bra.
"Enough," Julian snapped, cutting through the noise.
His assistant appeared with a metal briefcase. Julian popped it open, revealing stacks of hundreds.
"Four hundred thousand," he announced, grabbing fistfuls and flinging them. "Crawl for it, Elena. Show 'em what the mighty Elena Vane's come to."
Bills fluttered down like toxic confetti. I dropped to my knees, scraping the gritty floor as I scrambled to grab them. The crowd jeered like hyenas.
"The extra one hundred thousand's charity," Julian said as I crammed bills into my jacket. "Don't say I never did anything for you."
"Thanks," I whispered, the words like glass. "Thanks for your... generosity, Mr. Vane."
I bolted, clutching my clothes and cash, out into the night.
An hour later, I stood outside Seaside Children's Home, heart pounding.
Through the window, I spotted him sleeping. My sweet boy, curled on that narrow cot. But something was wrong. He looked too thin, his body barely denting the mattress. Pale skin, puffy cheeks and ankles—swelling. His breathing was shallow, ragged.
He clutched our old family photo—the three of us at the beach, Elian on Julian's shoulders, all laughing.
"Mommy," he murmured in his sleep, voice faint through the glass. "When are you coming to get me?"
"Elena?" Mrs. Gables appeared, her voice soft but worried. "I wasn't expecting you this soon."
"I got money," I said, pulling wrinkled bills from my jacket. "For his care. Whatever it takes."
She glanced at the cash, then my face, her expression shifting. "Elena, hon, we need to talk. About Elian."
My blood ran cold. "What about him? What's going on?"
"The doctors found it two weeks ago during his checkup. Tests confirmed..." She took a shaky breath. "Kidney failure."
My knees buckled. "How come?" I whispered.
I stared at my sleeping son, his chest rising and falling unevenly. All this time I'd been locked up, he'd been fighting alone.
Mrs. Gables touched my shoulder. "Want to go in and see him? He asks about you every day."
"Don't let him see me like this," I said, still on my knees. "Not yet. I gotta sort this out."
That night, I stumbled into a rundown motel, collapsing onto the lumpy mattress. Exhaustion pulled me under.
There she was—Vanessa, blowing in from Europe with her fake widow tears and her five-year-old girl. "Little Chloe needs her daddy," she'd wailed. "We've got nowhere else to go."
The scene shifted. I watched through a crack in the bedroom door. Vanessa straddled Julian on our bed, hips grinding slow and deliberate, moaning as he thrust up into her, hands gripping her thighs. She arched back, breasts heaving, whispering filthy promises while he groaned, lost in her slick heat.
Then it snapped—Julian's hands around my throat, squeezing as he snarled, "You'll pay for this, you bitch. For the rest of your miserable life."
