A Ghost Walks Free

POV: DONOVAN

The front door slammed shut, the heavy thud echoing through the tense silence of the estate. My parents were gone, leaving behind a wake of furious threats and shattered expectations. I stood in the center of the living room, rubbing the bridge of my nose, trying to process the sheer chaos they had just unleashed upon my life. The ultimatum hung in the air like a guillotine.

Soft, hesitant footsteps broke the quiet. Valerie stepped out of the kitchen, her face streaked with fresh tears, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Seeing her cry immediately tightened my heart. I genuinely could not understand why my parents would be so unbelievably cruel to her. In my eyes, Valerie was a victim. She was the woman who had bravely stepped forward, saving me from a terrible situation and exposing the dark, twisted reality of the wife I had blindly trusted. Why did they treat her like the enemy? Why did they blindly refuse to believe that Madeline could be capable of such evil?

"Valerie, I am so sorry," I murmured, closing the distance between us. I pulled her into a protective embrace, letting her rest her head against my chest. "I will talk to them again. I promise. I will make them understand."

She clutched the fabric of my shirt, her fingers trembling. "Don't get her out, Donovan," she pleaded, her voice cracking with raw terror. "I'm scared of what she'll do to me when she gets out. Please, you can't let her go. Let her stay there. Let her rot in that cell."

Her tears soaked through my shirt, and a sharp pang of helplessness hit me. I wished I could grant her request. I truly wanted to leave Madeline exactly where she was, to pay for the scars she had left behind. But my parents' severe threat of complete disownment still rang loudly in my ears. My hands were tied.

"I have to," I whispered, gently stroking her back. "They weren't joking, Valerie. If I don't drop those charges, I lose my family, my inheritance, everything."

She sobbed harder, shrinking into my arms as if Madeline were already standing in the room, ready to strike.

"I will protect you at all costs," I swore, pulling back just enough to wipe the dampness from her cheeks. "That woman will never come anywhere near you again. I have to release her, or my parents will never forgive me. But I promise you, once they see the concrete proof of her crimes, they will be the ones to send her right back to jail."

She offered a small, weak nod, her eyes wide with fear. I guided her over to the couch, pressing her gently onto the cushions. "Wait right here. I need to make a call."

Stepping away into the quiet hallway, I pulled out my phone and dialed Nolan. My chest felt tight, and I desperately needed some solid advice. I needed a sounding board from my best friend to help me navigate this nightmare.

He answered on the third ring. "What is it, Donovan?"

The icy resentment in his voice cut straight through the line. I forced a dry laugh. "Can't a guy call his best friend without getting interrogated?"

A dark, humorless chuckle came through the speaker. "No, you can't. Because I know you, Donovan. You only call when you want something. What do you want this time?"

I gritted my teeth. Ever since I had Madeline arrested two years ago, Nolan had drawn a line in the sand. He didn't agree with my choices, and he made sure I felt his distance every single day.

"My parents want me to get Madeline out of jail," I said, waiting for his reaction.

Nothing but static answered me.

"Nolan? Are you still there?"

"I'm here," he replied coldly. "But I don't know what you expect me to say about that. You already know exactly how I feel about what you did to her. I made my feelings clear two years ago. But you told me to mind my own business. So, I don't understand why you're calling me about this now."

Frustration boiled up in my throat. I was exhausted by his stubbornness. Once Nolan made up his mind, there was no reasoning with him. "Forget it," I snapped, abruptly cutting the call.

Before I could even put my phone in my pocket, it rang again. The caller ID showed Scott, the local police chief.

"Mr. Kincaid," Scott panted the second I answered. He sounded frantic, practically sweating through the phone. "You need to come down to the station immediately. Your parents are already here, and they are giving the entire precinct hell. I need you here to sign the release forms before they tear my lobby apart."

"I'm on my way," I muttered.

I walked back into the living room, grabbing my keys from the console table. Valerie looked up, her expression fragile and pale.

"I have to go to the police station," I told her firmly. "Scott, my head of security, is going to stay here and guard you. He has his men stationed right outside the house. You are safe."

She nodded, pulling her arms around her knees. Leaving her in the safety of the estate, I headed out to my car and sped toward the precinct.

The moment I walked through the station's heavy double doors, Chief Scott was waiting. He wiped a hand across his damp forehead, his eyes darting nervously around the room. He quickly escorted me away from the chaotic bullpen and straight into the quiet confinement of his private office.

My parents sat in the corner, waiting like executioners. The air in the room felt suffocatingly thick.

Scott slid the release documents across his desk. I picked up the pen, feeling the heavy weight of what I was about to do. I looked toward my mother, trying one last time to sway them.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" I asked, my voice tight. "Before you even look at the undeniable proof of everything she did?"

My mother folded her arms across her chest. She turned her head, refusing to even look in my direction. I shifted my gaze to my father. His eyes remained locked on me, holding a cold, distant stare of utter disappointment that chilled me to the bone.

Defeated and bitter, I pressed the pen to the paper. I slashed my signature across the dotted lines, shoved the documents back into the chief's chest, and walked out of the office without looking back.

I pushed through the station doors, retreating straight to the sanctuary of my car. My stress levels were peaking. I reached into the center console, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. I took a deep drag, blowing the smoke against the windshield, keeping my eyes fixed on the station's heavy glass doors.

After what felt like an eternity, the doors finally swung open. My father emerged first, his jaw set tight. My mother followed closely on his heels, her posture rigid.

I rolled down the window, tapping the ash from my cigarette.

And then, I saw her.

My heart skipped a hard beat.

Madeline stepped into the daylight, and the breath left my lungs. She looked incredibly frail. Her skin was pale, coated in a thick layer of grime and dirt. She was still wearing the exact same clothes she had been arrested in two full years ago, but now they hung off her frame like loose, filthy rags.

She was terrifyingly skinny. Her cheekbones jutted sharply beneath her hollowed eyes, and her wrists looked brittle enough to snap in a strong breeze. She was visibly malnourished, a hollow, walking skeleton compared to the vibrant, healthy woman I had married.

A sudden, fierce wave of anger flared within my chest, burning hot and fast. My grip on the steering wheel tightened until my knuckles ached. I genuinely thought the prison system would take care of her basic needs. I had only ordered that she receive no visitors and be kept strictly indoors. I had never asked for her to be mistreated, starved, and beaten down to the point of looking like a broken ghost.

She was still my wife. The authorities should have known better than to let her deteriorate like this. Misplaced indignation warred with a creeping, heavy guilt eating me up inside. I couldn't tear my eyes away from the bruised, emaciated figure standing on the sidewalk. This wasn't what I wanted.

Filled with conflicting rage, I threw the cigarette out the window and started my car engine. I slammed my foot on the gas and sped off down the street, unable to stomach the sight of her a second longer. Despite the horrific consequences of my orders, a twisted, naive hope settled in my chest—the hope that she would eventually come home to me, so I could somehow make it all up to her.