Revenge After Prison

Aria POV Louisiana. The cold iron gates of the prison creaked open. Sunlight stabbed into my eyes, glaring against my dry, sallow face. The clothes I wore when I was imprisoned now hung loosely on me. After three years in the darkness, I was finally free. Dragging my injured leg, I limped out of the prison. The pain still throbbed deep in my bones, but I wasn’t in a hurry — not because I didn’t want to move faster, but because I simply couldn’t. A black Bentley stopped by the roadside. The window rolled down, and I looked up to see a familiar, brooding face. His gaze swept over my leg with a trace of disdain. “Three years in prison, and you still love to act,” he sneered. My chest tightened, and my eyes burned with an ache I couldn’t name. Julian Locke— my brother. Since being brought back from the orphanage to the Locke family at fifteen, I had tried everything to please him. Yet he... he was the one who fabricated evidence and sent me to prison for “attempted murder,” all to protect his precious adopted sister. Three years later, his words were still sharp as knives — and his hatred, unchanged. I clenched my teeth, pretending not to see him, and continued limping forward. I could feel his expression freeze — perhaps surprised that I ignored him. Once, I had gone to great lengths for his approval: waiting at the door with his slippers, massaging his shoulders when he was tired, brewing calming soup for his insomnia, and standing in the rain outside his office with a lunch box when he skipped meals. I thought those gestures might earn me his affection. But those days were long gone. Now, I no longer sought his gaze or his praise. The admiration I once had for him had faded, replaced by distance. “Aria, get in the car,” he said at last, his voice sharp yet carrying a faint note of hesitation. “Mom and Dad know you’re out today. They’ve prepared a dinner to welcome you home.” “Mom and Dad…” The words felt foreign on my tongue. In the orphanage, I used to dream that one day I’d have parents — that I’d be a beloved little princess. After fifteen years of waiting, I thought my wish had come true. But reality had other plans. Those “parents” weren’t mine; they were Julian and Evangeline’s. The adored daughter of the Locke family — the so-called “princess” — was not me, but the fake heiress they had raised, Evangeline. I lowered my head, a bitter smile tugging at my lips. Fifteen years of longing — how laughably cruel it all seemed now. The Louisiana air outside the prison was heavy and scorching. My steps were slow but steady. Three years behind bars had taught me one thing: if people hate you, why force yourself to return to their world? Behind me, the Bentley door opened. Julian caught up in a few strides and grabbed my wrist. I stumbled and fell hard to the ground. Agonizing pain shot through my leg, draining the color from my face. “Enough!” he barked. I looked up at him, my gaze as cold as a stranger’s. “Don’t forget,” he said harshly, “three years ago, you pushed Juliette down the stairs and tried to frame Evangeline. Don’t think prison washes away your sins. Until she wakes up, your debt isn’t paid.” I bit my lip, a bitter laugh escaping me. Three years ago, I had said it countless times — Juliette wasn’t pushed by me. It was Evangeline. But no one believed me. They all chose her side. I lifted my head, putting some distance between Julian and me. The pain in my leg reminded me that this world had never belonged to me. In three years, I had learned to endure, to hide, and to stay away from affections that were never mine to begin with. He stared at me, as if suppressing his anger, his tone forced into a semblance of gentleness. “Come home with me.” I lowered my eyes, my face calm and unreadable, as though I had no desire to look at him again. Three years in prison hadn’t taught me obedience—it had taught me defiance. Just then, a familiar voice cut through the tension, soft as a breeze brushing past my heart— “Aria.” My chest tightened instantly. Three years of silence shattered with that single word. I looked up and saw a pair of polished leather shoes approaching. The deep, magnetic voice sounded again. “Aria, congratulations on regaining your freedom.” Lucas Harlow. My childhood friend. That voice used to be my greatest source of warmth, but now it made my teeth ache with bitterness. Once, he had promised to protect me, to never let anyone hurt me. Once, he had vowed to become a lawyer—to send those who wronged me to prison. But three years ago, he stood by Evangeline’s side and sent me behind bars instead. The air turned heavy. He forced a smile and reached out his hand. “Aria, I came to pick you up…” I abruptly turned my head toward Julian, my voice calm and detached. “Didn’t you say we’re going home? Let’s go.” I knew then that there was no escape. Lucas had once been the person I trusted most, and now he was the one I despised the most. Between facing him or going with Julian, I chose the latter. At least Julian had always hated me—he never gave me hope, so I could never be disappointed. With him, the damage to my heart would be minimal. Prison had taught me one thing: when you have no power, no influence, and no one to rely on, the only thing you can do is minimize the harm—just to survive. When the inmates toyed with me, I chose a slap over a scarred face; kneeling over being beaten; barking like a dog over drinking from a toilet. I had fought back once—but the harder I resisted, the worse the beating became. To stay alive, I swallowed my pride and let myself be used and humiliated. Even when thrown among the most vicious criminals, I managed to survive—by knowing when to yield and when to endure. I dragged my leg and walked toward Julian’s black Bentley. As I passed by Lucas, my expression remained indifferent—I didn’t spare him even a glance. The loose hem of my oversized T-shirt brushed lightly against his fingertips, the touch hollow and cold—like fabric gliding past a hanger, not a living person. I could feel his hand stiffen, his breath falter for an instant. Once, my eyes had always followed him, filled with trust and dependence. We had grown up together in the orphanage, supporting each other through everything. Whenever he called my name, I would always smile and answer, “Lucas, I’m here.” But now, I looked right through him—as if he were nothing at all. Not even a fleeting glance did I grant him. I got into the back seat, my gaze drifting across the car’s interior—everywhere were traces of a woman’s presence. The front passenger seat was covered with a fluffy pink cushion; a neat row of Strawberry Bear figurines sat on the dashboard; and hanging from the rearview mirror was a charm featuring a woman—more mature and alluring than she was three years ago. She smiled radiantly, the kind of smile born from a lifetime of being cherished. She was Evangeline. The real Locke family princess. That face, full of effortless joy, seemed to mock me—the counterfeit daughter who had once dared to dream of belonging. I thought I had learned to face it all with indifference. But seeing it with my own eyes, I still felt a faint, stinging ache in my chest.