26. Chapter 26
Tom Peterson sat on the edge of the metal cot, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
The clang of iron bars down the hall reverberated through the prison block, followed by the low drone of men arguing over cigarettes and cards.
The stench of boiled cabbage and bleach filled the air, a constant reminder that this hellhole wasn’t designed for men like him.
Fifteen years.
Fifteen damn years of watered-down coffee, tasteless slop on a tray, and the same orange uniform.
Fifteen years of regimented schedules—wake up at dawn, line up for headcount, shuffle to chow, pretend to care about the prison library or weight room, then shuffle back.
Fifteen years without the sound of heels clicking across his marble floors, without the waft of perfume from a woman as she slid into his bed. Fifteen years without sex.
His jaw ached from clenching his teeth so hard.
He shouldn’t be here. He should be in his office, running his empire, watching the numbers climb on his revenue reports while his accountants found creative ways to keep the government’s greedy hands out of his pockets.
He should be in his mistress’s bedroom, or with a woman on her knees, and his bourbon poured just right.
Instead, he was caged.
And worst of all—Melissa had won this round.
Melissa, with her frumpy clothes and her pathetic “I love teaching” smile.
She was supposed to be broken. He’d taken everything from her—the kids, her job, her reputation.
He’d dragged her through the mud until no respectable school district would ever hire her.
She should have stayed down. She should have stayed quiet.
But no.
The courts had forced him, while awaiting trial, to put her in charge of the empire. His empire. His blood, his sweat, his brilliance. And what had she done? She’d sold it all, saying he would need the funds for his legal defense.
The business—the chain of sporting goods stores, the factory contracts, the warehouses—gone.
Offloaded to his biggest competitor. His house—the one with the pool, the imported marble counters, the security gates—transferred to her name.
She’d liquidated his business assets and gutted him like a fish.
Every dime tucked away in her name now, while he was left to rot on a prison cot with a bag of state-issued toiletries and a roommate who snored like a chainsaw.
She was living his life. His!
He punched the wall, wishing it was her face, ignoring the sting in his knuckles.
She was probably sipping champagne right now, laughing with those snot-nosed kids about how they were finally free of him.
Maybe she was buying herself new dresses with his money, hosting dinners with his competitors, climbing into someone else’s bed.
Rage curdled in his gut.
This wasn’t over. Fifteen years or not, he’d find a way to get out early. Lawyers could be bought. Guards could be bribed. Evidence had a way of disappearing. And when he got out—oh, when he got out—he’d make damn sure Melissa paid for this.
For now, though, he had to survive. That meant eating the mystery meat, ignoring the catcalls from the other inmates, and enduring the lonely, sleepless nights on a thin excuse of a mattress.