Chapter 9 - The Reckoning of the Past
While Emma's life soared to unprecedented heights of happiness and purpose, the dark remnants of her past received their final, inescapable reckoning.
Deep within the stone walls of the State Maximum Security Penitentiary, Mason Reed sat in a cold, six-by-eight-foot concrete cell.
His twenty-eight-year sentence had proven to be a living nightmare. Without money, clout, or friends, he sat at the absolute bottom of the prison hierarchy. He spent twelve hours a day working in the damp prison laundry room, his hands rough and blistered, his expensive posture long ruined by hard labor and constant fear.
Claire had abandoned him within forty-eight hours of his conviction, taking what little jewelry he had given her and vanishing to another state. His former friends in high society refused to accept his collect calls.
On a cold November afternoon, a prison guard slammed a heavy iron baton against Mason's cell bars.
"Reed! Get up. You have a visitor."
Mason's heart leaped in his chest. Emma, he thought desperately. It has to be Emma. She finally read my letters. She realized she still loves me. She’s coming to help me get parole.
Mason frantically brushed down his stained orange jumpsuit, smoothed his messy hair, and hurried down the concrete corridor under heavy guard into the glass visitor room.
He sat down at the table, gripping the plastic telephone receiver with shaking hands.
The door on the visitor side opened.
It was not Emma.
It was Frank—Victor Vance’s terrifying head of security.
Frank sat down smoothly on the metal stool across the thick bulletproof glass. He didn't pick up his phone receiver immediately. He simply sat there, staring at Mason with cold, clinical disdain.
Slowly, Frank lifted the phone.
Mason grabbed his receiver, his voice desperate and high-pitched through the speaker. "Who are you?! Where is Emma?! Why isn't she here?!"
"Miss Carter does not know I am here, Mr. Reed," Frank said coldly. "And she will never receive another one of your pathetic letters again. They go directly into my paper shredder."
"You can't do that!" Mason shrieked, banging his fist on the metal counter. "I have rights! She loved me! She saved my life!"
Frank leaned closer to the glass, his dark eyes dropping into a terrifying stare that made Mason's blood run cold.
"She saved a pile of garbage that should have been left to burn," Frank said softly. "I came here today to deliver a final message from Mr. Vance."
Frank pulled a glossy newspaper clipping from his pocket and pressed it flat against the bulletproof glass.
Mason leaned in, reading the headline in bold black ink:
"CARTER-VANCE FOUNDATION EXPANDS NATIONWIDE; EMMA CARTER AND VICTOR VANCE ANNOUNCE ENGAGEMENT AT ANNUAL GALA."
Below the headline was a large, brilliant color photograph.
Emma sat atop a breathtaking floral garden balcony, wearing a sparkling emerald dress, her face radiant with happiness. Her left arm was wrapped lovingly around Victor Vance’s broad neck, and on her ring finger sat a flawless, six-carat canary diamond that caught every beam of sunlight. Victor was looking at her with an expression of pure, worshipful devotion.
They looked regal. They looked invincible. They looked deeply, hopelessly in love.
"No..." Mason whimpered, tears spilling down his pale cheeks as he stared at the woman he had discarded, now living a life of unimaginable wealth, power, and love with a man he could never hope to match. "No... that was supposed to be my life... I was supposed to be the rich one..."
"You are nothing, Mr. Reed," Frank said calmly, folding the newspaper clipping and sliding it back into his pocket. "You are a forgotten ghost in a concrete box. Mr. Vance wanted me to assure you that every month for the next twenty-seven years, a copy of the foundation's annual report will be delivered directly to your cell—so you can watch Emma change the world while you rot in this room."
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Frank hung up the phone receiver, stood up, and walked out of the room without looking back once.
Mason dropped the phone, collapsed across the metal counter, and sobbed uncontrollably into his hands—his pathetic, empty cries echoing uselessly against the cold, unfeeling concrete walls.
