Meanwhile, Elena—his Elena—had been raising four children alone. Working double shifts. Living in shelters. Stealing medicine to keep his daughter alive.
“She never called,” Marcus whispered. “She never asked for a dime.”
“She has pride, Marcus. You broke her heart and humiliated her publicly. She wasn’t going to come crawling back.”
Marcus stood up. The grief was gone, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. The same resolve that made him a shark in the boardroom.
“Get the car, Vance. We’re going to the jail.”
“It’s 11 PM, Marcus. Visiting hours are over.”
“I own the building the jail sits on,” Marcus snarled, grabbing his coat. “Open the doors.”
PART 3: The Cell
Cook County Jail is a place where hope goes to die. It smells of industrial bleach, unwashed bodies, and despair.
Marcus walked through the corridors flanked by the Warden, who looked terrified. His expensive Italian loafers clicked against the concrete floor, a sound that didn’t belong there.
“She’s in holding cell 4,” the Warden stammered. “We… we didn’t know she had connections to you, Mr. Blackwood. If we had known—”
“Open it,” Marcus commanded.
The heavy steel door slid open with a buzz.
Inside, sitting on a thin cot, was a woman. She was thin—too thin. Her beautiful hair was dull and pulled back in a messy bun. She wore a bright orange jumpsuit that washed out her pale skin. Her hands, once soft, were red and chapped from scrubbing floors.
But when she looked up, the eyes were the same. Defiant. Proud.
Elena.
