Chapter 3
Three years crawled by like a slow death.
Rachel’s skin grew pale from lack of sunlight. Her once-bright eyes dulled. Her long hair was now cut short, messy and dry. The silence of her cell became her only companion.
She stopped counting the days after a while. What was the point?
Each morning she woke up to the same cracked ceiling, the same cold breakfast, the same stares and whispers. The world outside had moved on. No one remembered her—not the good parts anyway.
She was just the woman who had her best friend raped.
The prison gate opened with a loud buzz. A female officer handed her a small plastic bag with the clothes she wore the day she entered—worn jeans, a faded shirt, and old sneakers.
Rachel changed slowly, her movements stiff. She looked down at her thin body. She didn’t even look like herself anymore.
The officer gave her one last glance and said, “You’re free.”
Free.
The word echoed in her mind like a cruel joke.
Rachel stepped out of the prison gates. The sky was cloudy, the wind dry. There was no one waiting.
No car.
No family.
No friends.
Not even a text.
She walked down the street with slow steps, the bag in her hand. She had nowhere to go. Her apartment had been cleared out. Her bank account frozen. The Morris family had erased her name like it never existed.
She tried getting a job.
At a coffee shop, the manager smiled until he saw her name. Then his smile disappeared. “Sorry. We’re not hiring anymore.”
At a bookstore, the woman in charge looked her up and down. “You’re that girl, aren’t you? From the news?”
Rachel said nothing. She just turned and left.
Everywhere she went, people stared.
Some recognized her.
Some just sensed something was off.
She finally rented a room in a tiny, moldy building with cracked walls and no heating. She paid with what little she earned from cleaning jobs.
She ate instant noodles. Drank tap water. Slept on a hard mattress.
At night, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
Three years.
Three years of silence, of loneliness, of being hated.
And she still didn’t know the truth.
Why had Helen messaged her that night?
Why had someone framed her?
Why had Eric never once doubted her guilt?
She closed her eyes.
She wanted to forget him.
But his face haunted her dreams.
His eyes—so cold.
His words—so sharp.
His love—if it had ever been real—shattered beyond repair.
One morning, she walked past a newspaper stand.
A headline caught her eye.
“Eric Burton Announces Engagement to Film Star Michelle Lang.”
Her heart didn’t even ache this time.
It just felt… empty.
He had moved on.
She was still in ruins.
But something stirred inside her—a tiny flicker of anger.
Not for him.
For herself.
She had spent three years surviving. Now it was time to do something else.
She was going to find out the truth.
Who killed Helen?
Who framed her?
And why?
Because even if no one believed her…
Even if Eric never looked at her again…
She needed to know.
For herself.