Love Taken for Granted

My half-sister, Wanda, committed a hit-and-run while drunk driving. To shield her from punishment, my fiancé—an esteemed lawyer and the man I once trusted above all—made me take the fall.

He didn't even flinch as he condemned me. "For someone as vile as her, taking Wanda's place in prison is a blessing," he had said with a frown of cold disdain.

For five years, I endured the suffocating walls of a prison cell, bearing a crime I didn't commit. My anger kept me alive, my resolve hardening with every passing day.

When I was finally free, fate brought us face-to-face again. But I didn't so much as glance in his direction, let alone take a single step closer to him. He wasn't worth it.

Yet, on the day I stood radiant in a wedding dress, ready to start a new chapter with someone else, he shattered the moment. The man who once betrayed me burst into the ceremony, his usually composed demeanor replaced by desperation. His red-rimmed eyes betrayed sleepless nights and his voice trembled as he knelt before me.

"Please," he begged, his hands trembling. "Love me one more time."

***

The day I stepped out of prison, snow blanketed Arlington—a rare and surreal sight. Flurries drifted lazily, the icy wind biting into my exposed skin. My thin prison-issued clothes clung to me, useless against the cold. I hugged my arms tightly around myself, my breath visible in the frosty air.

Through the haze of snow, I saw Sean's car idling by the roadside, its sleek black exterior pristine against the white backdrop. The tinted window rolled down, revealing the face that had once made my heart race but now only left me hollow.

"Get in," he said, his voice low and clipped, offering neither warmth nor reproach.

I climbed in without a word, the leather seat cold against my skin. My silence wasn't a choice—it was survival. I had nowhere else to go.

The car moved smoothly through the snow-dusted streets, the only sound the hum of the engine and the occasional crunch of snow under the tires. My gaze remained fixed on the window, watching as the city blurred past. Each turn felt unfamiliar, like I was a stranger in a place I used to call home.

Home. The word felt like an echo from a distant life. My parents had ended theirs in despair, leaping from the rooftop of the company they had poured everything into. The villa I grew up in had long since been sold. Sean had bought it back, though I doubted it was out of sentiment.

When we arrived, the sight of the house knocked the air out of my lungs. The manicured lawn, the towering oak tree by the gate—it was all the same, yet it felt foreign. I stood frozen in place, my body refusing to move.

"Natalie, you're finally home!" Wanda's chirpy voice rang out, shattering the silence. She stood in the doorway, her smile wide and welcoming, as if we were a family reunited after years apart.

Her figure approached quickly, a steaming bowl of soup in her hands. The aroma hit me first—rich and savory, yet cloying in its familiarity.

"Do you want to try it? I made it just for you," she said, thrusting the bowl toward me.

Before I could respond, the heat wafting from the bowl made my nose sting. I recoiled slightly. "It's too hot," I said hurriedly, waving a hand. "Just put it down—"

My words were cut off by Wanda's sudden cry. "Ouch!"

The bowl tilted precariously and the scalding liquid splashed onto the back of my hand. Pain seared through my skin, a vivid red mark blooming instantly. Tears blurred my vision as I gasped, clutching my hand.

Through the haze of pain, Sean appeared. His long strides ate up the distance between us in moments. For a fleeting second, I thought he might be concerned, but the storm in his eyes quickly dispelled that hope.

"I thought prison would teach you to behave," he said, his tone sharp and cutting. "But you're still as vicious as ever."

I opened my mouth, desperate to explain, but Wanda beat me to it.

"Sean," she whimpered, extending a trembling hand toward him. "It hurts..."

Her pale face was the picture of fragility, her bitten lip trembling as if the world had wronged her.

Sean's familiar sandalwood scent enveloped me as he stepped closer. Instinctively, I backed away, the memory of his touch—once comforting, now suffocating—tightening around me.

Lowering my gaze, I forced out the words, my voice trembling. "Darling, I'm sorry. I'll be more careful."

Sean's brows knitted slightly, his thumb absently rubbing his palm—a subtle tell of his displeasure.

"What did you just call me?" His voice was low, dangerous.

My heart sank. I couldn't bring myself to call him that again, not after everything. He wouldn't want me to, anyway.

"Mr. Connor," I corrected myself softly, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. "I apologize, Mr. Connor. I'll be more obedient."

The air turned heavy, suffocating in its tension. Sean's eyes bore into me, searching for something, though I didn't know what.

"Mr. Connor," he repeated with a cold laugh, the sound cutting through me like a blade. "How fitting."

I didn't respond, keeping my head bowed.

After a moment, he exhaled sharply, the sound filled with something unreadable. "Get some rest," he said finally. "You've suffered enough and this is your first day outside prison."

As he spoke, he reached out, his hand hovering above my head as if to pat it—a gesture that once brought comfort but now only froze me in place. I tensed but didn't move.

Sean withdrew his hand without a word. I turned and walked toward the room I used to call mine, my steps slow and unsteady.

Just as I reached the doorway, his voice stopped me cold.

"Natalie," he said, his tone unreadable.

I turned, my heart thudding in my chest and waited for the words that would follow.