Chapter 2

I kept my ears open, picking up any gossip the guards dropped about the outside, and listened to the new inmates talk about what was going on out there.

"Heard the Quinn Group just snagged that land down south. Mr. Quinn's really making a name for himself, huh?"

"Yeah, and his girlfriend, Victoria Shaw, is always in the headlines, either doing charity or showing up at fancy parties. She's living the high life."

Those words were like a thousand needles, pricking my heart again and again.

Pain only made my mind clearer, sharper than ever.

I spent my twenty-eighth birthday behind bars.

No cake, no birthday wishes. My parents had cut me off the moment I was locked up; they were ashamed of me. And all my old friends had scattered like birds.

The only thing that never changed was that familiar name on the visitor slip: Richard.

He made sure I never forgot that everything I was now, it was all because of him.

I scratched a few words into the back cover of my diary with my fingernail. [Richard, Victoria, blood for blood.]

That afternoon, the prison psychologist came to see me for the first time.

Tom Lambert was a middle-aged man who looked gentle and harmless.

He sat across from me, but unlike everyone else, he didn't ask if I was adjusting or if I needed help.

He watched me in silence for a while, then pushed up his glasses and said something that came out of nowhere.

"Sometimes, biding your time is just so you can come back swinging even harder," Tom said.

My heart jolted, but I didn't let it show on my face. I looked up and gave him a look like he was crazy.

He just smiled, said nothing else, and wrapped up the session.

But I knew; this guy was no ordinary shrink.

Life behind bars had taught me one thing for sure.

Trust was a luxury; survival was all about leverage.

Three months left until I got out.

The tally marks I scratched into the wall were so dense they nearly overlapped, each one etched with two years of pain and fury.

Tom started coming to see me more often.

He'd always let slip little bits of news from the outside world, never making it obvious.

"The stock market's been pretty shaky lately. Looks like the Quinn Group's major overseas deal is running into some trouble," he said while shuffling through his papers, sounding casual.

I was hunched over, sanding a wooden craft, and didn't even pause when I heard him.

"Tom, you sure keep up with the business news," I said, my voice flat and emotionless.

He looked up at me through his glasses, a curious smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

"At my age, you gotta find something to keep yourself busy. Not like you young folks, you've still got your whole future ahead of you."

He went on, "Word is, the Quinn Group isn't exactly presenting a united front. Some of the old-timers at the top aren't too thrilled with how Richard's been running things.

"And especially Victoria's been a little too flashy lately; people are starting to talk."

I stayed silent, but I pressed down harder on the sandpaper.

Everything he said matched exactly with the scattered intel I'd gathered myself.

Richard's empire wasn't as unbreakable as it looked.

And Victoria, the woman who stepped on me to get ahead, no matter how glamorous she seemed, there had to be all kinds of trouble hiding beneath that shiny surface.

I scoffed inwardly. The higher she climbed, the harder she crashed.

Victoria's good times were about to end.

I was testing Tom, and he was testing me right back. We were like two chess players, each move calculated, every step cautious.

I acted like I didn't care about anything he said, but in my head, I memorized every word, analyzing every detail.

Whose side was he really on? Friend or foe?

Until I knew for sure, anyone could be my enemy.

One month left until I got out.

Mia, one of the girls from my cell block, was getting released ahead of schedule.

She was a hard-luck girl, locked up for accidentally hurting someone. She got bullied a lot when she first got here. One time, I helped her out, and from then on, she never left my side, always calling me "Olivia."

The night before she got out, we sat together in a quiet corner of the prison yard.

I pulled a crumpled slip of paper from my pocket, covered in a jumble of random numbers and letters.

"When you get out, don't go home. Go to this address and find a guy named Sam; he runs an internet café. Give him this, and he'll tell you what to do next," I said.

Mia took the note, nodded firmly, her eyes misty with emotion.

"Trust me, Olivia. I promise I'll do it," she said.

I looked at her; she was nearly ten years younger than me, still had that baby-faced innocence, but her eyes showed a grit only life could give.

"Mia, the world out there is way more complicated than it is here. Remember, don't trust anyone easily, not even Sam. You have to learn to judge for yourself," I said.

She gripped the note tightly in her hand, like it was the only hope she had left.

"I get it, Olivia. I'll be waiting for you to get out," she said.

One look, and she got it.

My first piece was in place.

A week before my release, I got the last visitor slip.

Of course, it was Richard again.

This time, for the first time ever, I stood in front of the glass for a whole minute.

I didn't pick up the phone. I just stood there, my back to him, unmoving.

I could feel his gaze glued to my back—heavier and more tangled than ever. It was like he was wrestling with something, hurting, and had a thousand things he wanted to say but couldn't.

So what?

Love that came too late was cheaper than grass.

I straightened my back and walked away without looking back.

All I left him was a cold, resolute back.

The night before my release, everything was dead silent.

I pulled out a tiny shard of mirror I'd hidden away, its edges smoothed from use, and stared at the face reflected in it.

Pale, gaunt, but those eyes that used to be gentle as a summer stream were now cold and sharp, like a frozen lake.

The Olivia I used to be died the day I was thrown behind bars two years ago.

Now, all that was left was Olivia, the vengeful spirit, reborn for one purpose: revenge.

I took out my battered notebook, every page crammed with my meticulously detailed revenge plan. One by one, I flipped through each sheet.

Every step, every detail, every possible curveball and my counter-move. I'd rehearsed it all in my mind, again and again, until it was burned into my bones.

When I reached the last page, I struck a match and watched the flames devour two years of plotting. As the fire ate away my past, I felt nothing but a cold satisfaction; finally, it was time to let go and move forward.

The flames danced, casting flickering shadows across my blank face.

The paper curled, turned black, and crumbled into ash.