Betrayed Behind Bars.
Zyrah’s Point of View.
“This isn’t real.” I kept assuring myself.
“It can’t be real!”
The cold bite of metal wraps around my wrists, the sharp click of the handcuffs echoing in my ears as my entire world crumbles.
“You have the right to remain silent.” One of the cops said to me.
Silent?
For a crime I didn’t commit?
My breath shudders out of me as I stumble forward, my legs locking in place. The officer gripping my arm pulls me harder, dragging me toward the front door.
“No, wait, this is a mistake!” My voice rises, cracking as I fight against the restraints. “You don’t understand, I didn’t do anything!”
The officers don’t listen, they don’t even look at me.
Their grips are firm, their faces unreadable, as if I am already guilty.
“Please,” I beg, panic lacing every syllable. “Just let me call my husband, he’ll fix this!” but even as the words leave my mouth, doubt slams into me like a blade.
Ronan.
“Where is he?”
“Why isn’t he here?”
I thrash harder, my bare feet skidding against the marble floor, my nightgown tangling around my legs as they force me outside.
Suddenly, the world explodes. Flashes of light, too bright and fast.
Cameras, reporters, and the paparazzi swarming like vultures.
The second my bare feet hit the driveway, the screams descend upon me.
“Mrs. Lancaster, are the fraud accusations true?”
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“Did you really steal millions from your husband’s company?”
“Is this the reason behind your rocky marriage?”
“Look here, Zyrah! One picture, please!”
They knew, and they were waiting for this.
My stomach turns violently.
The voices blur together, blending into an ugly, deafening roar as my vision spins. I whip my head around, eyes wild, desperate, searching.
“Ronan!”
My eyes searched the crowd that surrounded me.
“RONAN!”
But he’s not here.
Oh my God.
I lunge forward, nearly tripping as the officers tighten their grip on me.
“Stop! Let me go!” I scream, twisting, fighting like a caged animal. “I didn’t do anything!”
The cameras flash faster.
I feel my body shaking, violent, uncontrollable tremors. My breath comes in ragged gasps, my vision blurring with the sting of unshed tears.
This isn’t happening.
I am Zyrah Lancaster.
I am Ronan’s wife.
I am innocent.
“Please,” I choke out, looking at the officers, looking at the reporters, looking at anyone who will listen. “Someone has made a mistake! I would never steal, my husband will explain, he’ll tell you…
But no one stops to listen.
“”
Immediately, the cops shove me into the back of the police car, the door slamming shut with a final, crushing sound.
Tears burn my eyes as I press myself against the cold leather seats, my heart hammering violently against my ribs.
This is just a nightmare.
Any second now, Ronan will call.
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Any second now, he’ll fix this.
I suck in a shaky breath and turn to the officer in the front seat.
“Please, let me make a call,” I whisper, my voice raw, desperate.
He barely glances at me. “You can call someone when we get to the station.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing back a sob.
Just hold on, Zyrah.
Just hold on.
After the most horrible ride of my life, we got to the police station. As I stepped out of the car, to my surprise, there were still more reporters waiting for me and the cameras flashed insanely.
Tears welled up in my eyes as it felt like I was about to run mad.
As soon as we stepped into the station, the air suddenly felt cold to me, sterile and lifeless.
The moment they pull me from that car, I am no longer a person.
I was a criminal.
I was nothing.
I try to fight back, try to explain, to demand answers, but they all ignore me.
They took me into the interrogation room, the walls felt too close.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a cold, sterile glow over the metal table between me and the detective. The chair beneath me is hard, uncomfortable, but I barely feel it.
“This isn’t real.” I kept muttering to myself.
“It can’t be real, you are having a nightmare, one that will soon be over.” I assured myself even if it felt so real.
“Zyrah Lancaster, you are officially being charged with financial fraud and embezzlement.”
The words ring in my ears, sharp as a blade, my eyes narrowed as I stared at the officer in front of me.
“Twenty million dollars?” My lips trembled in disbelief.
Stolen, laundered, and raced back to me.
“How? This is impossible.” I said to him.
This is a mistake, it has to be.
“I, I didn’t do this,” I stammer, my voice shaking with disbelief.
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Betrayed Behind Bars.
288 Vouchers
The detective sitting across from me doesn’t blink. His face is unreadable, but there’s something cold beneath his gaze. Like he’s already made up his mind.
“Mrs. Lancaster,” he sighs, flipping through a folder, thick, heavy, and full of evidence. “We have more than enough proof. Bank transfers, offshore accounts, your signature on multiple documents, should I keep going?”
My stomach twists violently.
“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “That’s impossible.”
The detective pulls out the first page and slides it toward me.
I stare at it.
My name, my signature, the date, and the amount transferred.
Twenty million dollars.
I felt sick.
“This isn’t real,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
The detective raises a brow.
“It looks real to me.”
“Someone forged this,” I snap, panic clawing up my throat. “I never signed these papers!”
He leans back, arms crossed.
“So, what are you saying? That someone created an entire paper trail, falsified months’ worth of records, hacked into your accounts… all to frame you?”
“Yes!” I shout, “It’s the damn truth!”
I sounded insane, my words felt weak, a desperate excuse to escape.
I can see it in his face that he doesn’t believe me, no one does.
“You claim that you are innocent, right?” He raised a brow and flips another page.
“We also have digital proof.”
He slides a second document in front of me.
They were filled with emails, text messages, and bank confirmations sent from my phone, my email.
My hands start shaking as I stared at the file, tears rolled down my face.
“No,” I whisper.
“Text messages directly between you and several offshore bankers,” the detective continues. “You personally ap-
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proved the transactions.”
I shake my head violently.
“I never sent these!”
But the words are right there.
In my chat history, my name on every email.
My betrayal in black and white.
I feel like I can’t breathe.
“This isn’t real,” I say again, tears burning my eyes. “This is a setup.”
The detective exhales sharply, rubbing his temples. “I’m trying to help you here, Zyrah.”
“Then listen to me!” I snap, slamming my hands on the table.
He doesn’t flinch.
“You need to start telling the truth, I can help you get a lighter sentence” he says, voice hard now. “Because right now, all the evidence says you’re guilty.”
I shake my head furiously.
“I don’t care what your files say! I didn’t do this!”
He studied me for a long moment, as if searching for a crack in my desperation.
Then, he leans forward.
“Tell me something, Mrs. Lancaster,” he says slowly. “If this really was a setup… who would go this far to frame you?”
The question slams into me like a truck.
My breath catches.
Who?
Who would do this to me?
No one came to my
mind.
A cold, sick feeling spreads through my chest.
“Mrs. Lancaster?” the detective prompts, watching me carefully.
I lick my lips, my voice barely audible.
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“No one does, I can’t think of anyone that would do this to me.”
The detective’s mouth quirks up at the corner.
The walls of the interrogation room feel like they’re closing in on me. The air is thick, suffocating. I can barely hear the detective’s words anymore, his accusations blending into a distant, meaningless noise.
My hands tremble against the cold steel of the table, wrists aching from the tight handcuffs. The weight of the evi- dence, the forged signatures, the fake emails, the fabricated transactions, all press down on me, crushing, unbearable.
But none of it makes sense, none of it is real.
I didn’t do this, I didn’t steal from my husband.
“If this really was a setup,” the detective says, voice unreadable, “who would go this far to frame you?” He asked again.
The question lingers in the air like a ghost.
Who?
My pulse pounds.
Who had access to these accounts? Who had the power to pull this off?
Who stood to gain the most from my downfall?
My lips part, my mind screaming at me to say it.
But before I can answer, the door swings open.
Footsteps echo against the tile floor, slow and purposeful.
I lift my head, my breath catching in my throat.
In front of me was Ronan.
Relief crashes over me like a tidal wave, I smiled, heaving a sigh of relief.
“Ronan,” I choke out, tears spilling over, voice raw with desperation.
He’s here, he’ll fix this, he’ll tell them this is a mistake.
The tension in my chest loosens just a little. I move to stand, forgetting about the cuffs, forgetting about everything, because none of it matters now, my husband is here.
“Tell them, Ronan!” I cry, pleading with my eyes. “Tell them I didn’t do this! You know I wouldn’t!”
He stops just a few steps away from the table.
For the first time since this nightmare began, I feel like I can breathe.
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Betrayed Behind Bars.
Then, he reaches into his suit pocket, pulls out a stack of papers, and places them in front of me.
Confused, my eyes blinked rapidly as I stare at the papers.
The heading blurs before my eyes, but I don’t need to read it.
I already know what it is.
Divorce papers.
My hands go numb.
The cuffs dig into my skin, but I don’t feel them anymore. I don’t feel anything.
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“Sign them.” Ronan’s voice is calm, emotionless, like he’s discussing a business deal, like he isn’t shattering my en- tire world.
“W-What?” My voice is barely a whisper.
He doesn’t blink, nor waver.
“I’ve already signed,” he says. “I need your signature to finalize it.”
My chest tightens, breath locking in my throat.
“No.” I shook my head slowly.
No, this isn’t happening.
“Ronan, I, I don’t understand,” I stammer, gripping the edge of the table so hard my knuckles turn white. “Why are you, why are you giving me this?”
“This is the end of our marriage because we’re done, Zyrah, it’s enough that you are not from the same class that I am but being married to a fraud, that is the final straw.” he says simply.
The words rip through me like a blade, and my heart shattered into tiny bits.
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Zyrah’s Point of View.
