Took the Blame for 3 Years, Now I'm Selling Sweet Potatoes at My Ex's Engagement Part

New Year's Eve, and I was pushing a rusted roasting cart through the frozen streets, hawking sweet potatoes to anyone who'd spare a glance.

Three years free. Three years out of prison.

The wind cut like a straight razor against my cheeks. Through the howl of it, someone called my name.

I lifted my head.

Liam Delgado.

Charlotte Swanson stood just behind him—the *real* daughter of the Swanson family. Their whole entourage dripped designer labels, glittering under the streetlights like they'd stepped out of a magazine spread. Ready to ring in the New Year in style.

Liam's gaze dropped to my hands. Red. Swollen. The skin cracked and bleeding from the cold.

"Freya Swanson?"

That voice. Still the same deep, cool baritone that used to make my pulse stutter.

I picked up a roasted sweet potato, the heat seeping through my ruined fingers, and held it out.

"Want one? It's hot."

He didn't take it.

He just stared, his eyes dark, unreadable. "Is this what you've been doing?"

I nodded. Pulled my hand back.

"Liam, *come on*!" Charlotte's voice sliced through the air. She tugged at his arm, her manicured nails flashing. "The fireworks are about to start!"

He turned away. Merged into the dazzling sea of lights without a single glance back.

I exhaled a cloud of white mist and rubbed my stinging hands together.

Loneliness is loudest in a crowd.

——

I watched their silhouettes dissolve into the brilliant explosion of fireworks overhead. And just like that, a jagged tear ripped through my memory.

Five years ago, I found out I was pregnant.

That same year, Charlotte Swanson returned to claim her birthright. She caused a hit-and-run and fled the scene, but the surveillance cameras caught her plates.

Liam came to me then.

He asked me to take the fall.

He said that because I was pregnant, I could apply to serve my sentence outside of prison. My parents piled on, their voices a chorus of guilt and obligation. It was the only way to *compensate* Charlotte for the years she'd missed with the family, they said.

So I did it.

I got the abortion alone. In secret. Then I walked into the police station and turned myself in.

The judge gave me two years.

Prison was a hell far worse than anything I'd imagined.

My cellmate hated me on sight. When she asked what I was in for, I told her the truth—I was taking the blame for someone else.

She laughed. "Idiot."

From that day on, she made my life a nightmare. Picked fights. Shoved me into walls. Tripped me in the corridors. One night, she threw a blanket over my head from behind and rained fists onto the back of my skull until the world went black.

I blacked out multiple times.

When I finally woke, the world tilted on a broken axis. Bile burned in my throat.

After that, my body stopped obeying me. My hands trembled. My feet dragged. When I walked, I listed to the side like a ship taking on water.

The guards eventually dragged me to the prison doctor. He diagnosed it as brain damage—cerebellar ataxia—and said I needed systematic rehabilitation.

But the prison's resources were limited.

They gave me painkillers and sent me back to my cell.

The day I was released, no one came.

I stood outside those iron gates clutching my meager belongings, the sunlight stabbing my eyes like needles.

With a criminal record and a disability, finding work was like trying to scale a wall of glass.

I tried delivering food, but I couldn't balance on the e-bike. During a turn, my center of gravity shifted, and I crashed into the roadside shrubbery. Meals scattered everywhere.

I tried waitressing at a small diner. But while carrying a bowl of hot soup, my hand spasmed. Scalding liquid splashed onto a customer's lap.

He flew into a rage. Slapped me across the face. Then kept swinging.

The boss paid him off and told me to get lost.

In the end, I spent my last savings on a secondhand roasting cart. It didn't require steady hands. And I didn't have to look anyone in the eye.

*Bang!*

Fireworks exploded overhead, one after another, painting the night in brilliant, fleeting color.

I lowered my head. Rearranged the unsold potatoes in the stove. Started to pack up.

The cold seeped through the thin soles of my shoes, turning my stiff legs to lead.

Just as I gripped the cart's handle, a prickle ran up the back of my neck.

Someone was watching.

Instinct dragged my gaze upward.

Liam had stopped.

He was looking back.

Through the swaying lights and drifting smoke, his expression was impossible to read, but his posture was rigid. He just stood there. Staring.

Panic seized my chest. I shoved the cart forward, desperate to escape that gaze.

The wheels hit a patch of uneven pavement.

Jolted hard.

My balance was already a disaster. The sudden motion threw my weight forward, and I pitched toward the hot stove, barely catching myself on the cart's edge.

My legs—useless, unresponsive—scrambled beneath me.