Chapter 144 144. Friendly But Not Friends
"Dismissed."
My throat burned with the effort to hold back tears as I walked back to my cell. Two weeks without Lucien. Without Maya. Without Damon or anyone who loved me. Fourteen days of knowing they'd come to visit and be turned away at the door.
A small part of me felt pride amidst the despair. I'd defended what was mine. I hadn't cowered or let someone take from me. In a place designed to strip away dignity, I'd fought for the one thing that mattered.
But then again, look what that cost me.
I curled onto my side, the ring pressed against my heart, and let exhaustion pull me under.
"Sterling, you have legal counsel," the guard announced, his baton rapping against the steel bars of my cell door.
It's been a week, and life in county jail followed a rhythm designed to break you.
Four AM, the unforgiving lights buzzed to life. A tray slid through the slot in our door. Lukewarm grits that tasted like paste. Watered down orange juice. I forced it down because the alternative was starving to death.
Throughout the day came the counts. Guards walking through the pod, clipboards in hand, checking every face against their lists. We had to stand at our cell doors, still and silent, while they verified we hadn't somehow escaped. If the count was off, lockdown. Hours trapped in the tiny cell with nothing but my thoughts and my cellmate's hostile silence.
The yard was a concrete pen surrounded by chain link fence topped with razor wire, a mesh ceiling blocking out most of the sky. We got one hour every few days if we were lucky. I spent it walking circles, breathing air that tasted like freedom even filtered through metal.
The commissary became my obsession. Rosalind, bless her, had put money on my books before I'd been transferred. Enough that I could buy the things that made this place somewhat bearable. I got extra soap that didn't smell like industrial cleaner, Ramen noodles, and a small radio so I could drown out the constant noise with music.
The week was agonizingly slow. No fights, though the glares from other inmates never stopped. Word had spread about the new girl who'd broken her cellmate's nose on day one. Some gave me space, while others looked at me like a challenge waiting to happen.
The attorney booth was barely bigger than a closet. Windowless with a metal table and two plastic chairs. Rosalind was already there when they brought me in.
"Camila," she breathed, her eyes widening as she took in the fading bruises on my face. "What on earth happened to you?"
The dam finally broke. I sat down and the first sob tore out of my chest, ragged and ugly. I pressed my palm against the table, my shoulders shaking as the reality of the last few days crashed over me.
"I don't think I can do this, Rosalind," I choked out, wiping my eyes with the rough sleeve of my uniform. "Two years? I'm doubting if I'll even survive the month. I have a book to finish. I want to get married to Lucien. I want to see Maya become a mother and be there when Damon has his kids. I want my life in the penthouse back. I don't want to die in a cage."
She came around the table and pulled me into her arms, letting me cry into her expensive blazer.
"You are not going to die in here," her voice carried that Maya's big-sister warmth that made me cry harder. "Look at me, Camila. You are a fighter. You've survived things much worse than a cellmate with sticky fingers. We are working every angle."
"But what if I'm not strong enough for this?"
She pulled back, forcing me to meet her eyes. "You broke your cellmate's nose defending your engagement ring. You've made it seven days without another incident. You're adapting. That's strength."
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, trying to pull myself together.
"I have news," Rosalind said, returning to her professional tone. "Plea deal. If you take it, we'll only have a plea hearing where they'll recommend two years in a minimum security facility with trauma counseling. I argued PTSD from the attempted assault. You'd likely serve twelve months with good behavior."
"And if I go to trial?"
"If you go to trial and lose, they're asking for ten years in maximum security." She let that sink in.
"One year guaranteed or risk ten." My voice was hollow. "That's the choice?"
"Yes, think about the people waiting for you, about the life you've planned. One year would steal so much from you, but ten would steal everything."
I nodded, touching the fading bruise on my jaw.
"And Camila?" She got on her feet. "One more thing. In here, you need to learn to be friendly but not friends. Don't trust anyone enough to let your guard down again."
After she left, I followed her advice religiously. Polite nods to other inmates. Brief conversations that never went deeper than the weather or complaints about the food. Heated glares when someone got too close to my space, but no more fights.
The hardest part was knowing Lucien was trying to visit. Maya too. Probably Damon. Every day I expected to be called for visitors, every day I was disappointed. The punishment stretched on like torture designed specifically for me.
Finally, week three came, and I heard those words that made my heart explode.
"Sterling. You have visitors."
My heart beat picked up as I followed the officer down corridors I was starting to know by heart, into the visiting room with its rows of cubicles separated by thick glass.
And there they were.
Lucien sat in the middle cubicle, Maya beside him. He was wearing a charcoal suit, his dark hair perfectly styled, those golden eyes scanning the room until they found me. Even through the glass, separated by phones and institutional paint, he radiated that commanding presence that made my insides cartwheel.
Maya looked worried, her hands twisted together in her lap.
I sat down across from them, hyperaware of how I must look. Yellow scrubs that hung wrong on my frame. Hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. Face bare of makeup, showing every shadow and fading bruise. Hopefully, they wouldn't notice.
I picked up the phone receiver with shaking hands. Lucien did the same, and just hearing the click of the connection made my eyes burn with fresh tears.
"Hey... handsome..." I tried forcing lightness into my tone, but it came out unsteady.
"Fiera..." His voice. God, his voice. Deep and warm and everything I'd been missing for weeks. "How are you, Fiera?