The visitation room smelled faintly of disinfectant and cold metal. The lights overhead hummed, steady and indifferent, the way they always had. Ethan Cole had spent two years memorizing the cracks in the pale gray walls, the rhythm of the guards' footsteps, the way time slowed in places like this.
Today was supposed to be different.
Today was the day he walked out.
More than that, today was supposed to be the day he finished what had been interrupted two years ago. The wedding that had never happened. The life that had been put on hold.
Claire Bennett sat across from him.
She was dressed sharply, tailored coat, neat makeup, the kind of controlled elegance that played well in boardrooms and charity luncheons. Not a trace of nerves showed on her face. No excitement. No relief.
No wedding dress.
Ethan noticed that first, a small, stupid detail that landed like a stone in his chest.
She reached into her bag and placed a folder on the table between them. The sound was soft, but final.
"Sign it," she said.
He stared at the folder. The words on the top page were already visible. Divorce Agreement.
For a moment, he wondered if this was some kind of test. A joke that had gone too far. He looked up at her face, searching for something he recognized.
"Claire," he said slowly, "what is this?"
She didn't answer right away. She leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other, eyes cool and assessing. Like she was negotiating, not ending a marriage.
"Let's not waste time," she said. "Just sign it."
His throat tightened. "Did something happen? Did someone pressure you?" He leaned forward, lowering his voice. "If there's a problem, tell me. I'll handle it."
She laughed. It wasn't loud. Just a short breath of amusement, sharp enough to sting.
"You?" she said. "Handle what, exactly?"
The words landed harder than a slap.
Ethan felt heat creep up his neck. "You don't mean that."
"I do," she replied calmly. "You really don't understand your position anymore, do you?"
He clenched his fists under the table. Three years ago, she had cried in his arms in a cramped apartment, terrified her family business would collapse. Three years ago, she had begged him not to leave her behind when he talked about going back to Washington.
He had stayed.
He had made calls he swore he never would. Old names. Old favors. Quiet connections that carried weight in places money couldn't reach. Within a year, her family had gone from scraping by to being invited into rooms they had never dreamed of entering.
And now she was looking at him like he was an inconvenience.
"A burden," she continued, as if reading his thoughts. "That's what you are now."
Something inside him cracked. "After everything I did for you?"
"That was then," she said flatly. "This is now."
She reached for her phone and unlocked it, turning the screen toward him.
Photos filled the display.
Claire, smiling brightly, leaning into a man in a tailored suit. Champagne glasses. Private rooms. Intimate angles that left no room for misunderstanding.
The man beside her was Andrew Whitlock. Old money. Polished. The kind of man who had never seen the inside of a visitation room in his life.
Ethan's reflection stared back at him from the glass. Prison uniform. Short hair. Eyes worn thin by time.
"Why would I choose you," Claire asked coolly, "over him?"
His heart slammed painfully against his ribs. "What are you talking about?"
She tilted her head. "You really want me to say it?"
"Say what?"
"A convicted rapist," she said, her voice precise. "Why would I stay married to that?"
The word hit him like ice water.
"Don't," he said sharply. "You know that wasn't me. It was your brother. I took the fall because you asked me to."
Her expression didn't change.
"That was the plan," she said.
He stared at her, not understanding. "What?"
"Two years ago," she continued, "I wasn't powerless. I already had Andrew. I needed a clean way out of our marriage. You going to prison made everything… convenient."
The room felt smaller. The walls pressed in.
"You used me," he said, the realization settling heavy and bitter.
She shrugged. "You agreed."
"I did it for you."
"And I let you," she replied. "We both got what we wanted. At least for a while."
She pushed the folder closer to him. "Sign."
His hand shook as he picked up the pen. Images flashed through his mind. Promises whispered in the dark. Letters he'd written from prison that she'd stopped answering months ago.
He signed.
When he finished, he set the pen down carefully. Then he laughed. A low, broken sound.
"You're making a mistake," he said. "One day, you'll understand what you threw away."
Claire stood, gathering her bag. "You think too highly of yourself."
She paused at the door. "You should be grateful. You're free. That prison you just crawled out of? Most people don't."
Then she left.
Ethan stayed seated long after the door closed.
For two years, he had refused power. Refused the Phoenix Ring. Refused a future built on influence and fear. All because he believed there was something worth returning to.
He was wrong.
The door opened again.
The warden entered with several guards behind him, all visibly tense. He bowed his head.
"We apologize for what you were subjected to," the warden said carefully. "Please accept this."
A black-and-gold card was placed into Ethan's palm.
"One hundred million dollars," the warden continued. "And our full support."
He hesitated, then asked, almost reverently, "Will you accept the ring this time?"
Ethan looked at the card. Then up.
"Yes," he said quietly. "I will."