Part 2The Broken Heiress Destroys the Girl Who Stole My Life

I stared at the mold and moisture staining the wall, my mind drifting back to that torrential rain five years ago.

I’d received Chelsea’s frantic call. “Sera, please, I need help! I hit someone… on Seaview Drive…”

I drove out immediately. When I arrived, the scene made my blood run cold.

My luxury sedan—the one I’d lent Chelsea—had a crumpled hood. The bumper was slick with blood. A few yards away, an elderly man lay in the mud, lifeless.

Chelsea hadn't been hit; she was the one who had struck and killed him.

She was huddled in Marcus’s arms, wrapped in his bespoke suit jacket. The air inside my car, which she’d abandoned, was thick with the cloying scent of cheap perfume and stale champagne. It didn't take a genius to figure out what had happened just before the accident.

“Sera.”

Marcus saw me. There was no apology, no shame. He strode toward me, and his first words cut deeper than any knife. “You’ll take the fall.”

I recoiled. “What are you talking about? Marcus, have you lost your mind?”

He gripped my wrist so hard I thought he’d snap a bone. He leaned in, screaming over the drumming rain.

“Chelsea is pregnant! I can’t have my child born while its mother is in a federal institution!”

I stood there, drenched and utterly stunned. My former mentee was carrying my fiancé's child.

“I won’t…” I backed away, tears mixing with the rain on my face.

Marcus’s expression turned utterly vicious, a coldness I’d never seen. “Did you forget? That car is registered to you.”

He lowered his voice, making the threat feel more intimate, more terrifying. “Also, your father’s company is running on fumes right now. It’s only Sterling Global’s bridge loan keeping them out of bankruptcy. And your mother’s bypass surgery? Scheduled for next week.”

He pressed closer. “Do you want to wake up tomorrow morning to the news that Jones Industries has collapsed, your father jumped from the roof, and your mother’s heart medication has been pulled?”

I was paralyzed. A sudden chill shot from my feet straight to the crown of my head.

“Marcus! You’re not human!” I shrieked. My tears tasted bitter, salty.

“I’ll get you the best lawyers, Sera.” He gently brushed the water from my cheek, a terrifying act of tenderness. “When you get out, I’ll marry you. Just take the charge for Chelsea. I have people on the inside; I promise you, I can get you out in two years, max. The Jones family funds will be transferred by sunrise.”

Chelsea, hiding behind him, started to sob dramatically. “Sera, please… I can’t go to jail. I have my grad school applications, my life is just starting…”

She gave me a sickening, saccharine look. “You’re different. You’re the Jones heiress. You’ll be fine, even if you do a little time.”

Police sirens wailed in the distance, closer now.

“You know what to do,” Marcus commanded, his voice softening to an urgent plea.

Between the survival of my family's legacy and my own freedom, he had already made the choice for me.

I walked toward the squad car.

Due to the severity of the death, and the way the story was handled by the media—painting me as a drunk, reckless heiress—my sentence was extended to five years.

Inside, the environment was brutal. One of the hardened inmates, the self-appointed queen, despised me. Toilet duty, sleeping on soaked mattresses, cigarette burns—it was routine. The worst was the late-night beatings.

The agony was so intense that I curled into a ball, feeling a hot, wet rush between my legs.

When I was finally hauled to the infirmary, I found out I had been pregnant.

The doctor, a callous woman, simply cleaned up the bloody tissue and told me flatly: “You lost the baby. It’ll be tough for you to conceive again.”

I lay staring at the ceiling, numb, until the guard told me I had a visitor.

Marcus. It was the only time he ever came.