Chapter 3

I was sentenced to four and a half years in prison.

The family of the man who died in the hit-and-run was in the courtroom. His wife screamed at me, calling me a murderer. His son threw a crumpled-up newspaper at me as the bailiffs led me away. I didn't flinch. I just absorbed it. It was part of the price.

Because of my pregnancy, the judge granted me a temporary reprieve. House arrest until after the birth. Then, prison.

They put an ankle monitor on me and dropped me off at the house I had shared with Ethan. The house that was supposed to be our home. I just wanted to pack a bag, grab my guitars and my notebooks, and disappear to my old, tiny apartment.

I pushed the door open and stopped.

The living room was full of people. My parents, the Clarks, were there, holding champagne glasses. Sabrina was in the center of the room, glowing, a wide smile on her face. And Ethan was standing beside her, his arm wrapped possessively around her waist.

They were celebrating.

"What is this?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

Sabrina's smile faltered for a second. "Jennifer! I... we didn't expect you."

My mother, Mrs. Clark, stepped forward, her expression annoyed. "Sabrina just got accepted into the Belmont University music program. We're celebrating her future."

My future. The one they had all helped steal.

Ethan' s eyes narrowed as he saw me. He immediately detached himself from Sabrina and walked towards me, his body blocking the exit.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded. "Trying to cause a scene? Are you going to tell everyone the truth now to get out of your sentence? It's too late for that."

The accusation was so absurd, so twisted, it left me speechless. He was the one who had created the lie.

"I live here," I finally managed to say. "I came to get my things."

"Your things?" Sabrina laughed, a high, nervous sound. "Ethan bought you everything. You don't have anything."

Her little dog, a yapping Pomeranian, started barking at me. It ran forward and bit at the strap of my bag, a worn leather satchel that held my song lyrics. I stumbled backward, trying to pull it away, and a sharp, sudden pain shot through my lower abdomen.

I gasped, clutching my stomach as I fell against the wall.

My father, Mr. Clark, strode over. He didn't offer a hand. He didn't ask if I was okay. He pulled a wad of cash from his wallet and threw it on the floor in front of me.

"Here," he said, his voice dripping with contempt. "Take it and get out. Go have your bastard child somewhere else. Don't ever bother us again."

The pain intensified, a crippling wave that stole my breath. I was in labor. Prematurely.

I looked at the money on the floor, at their smug, hateful faces. With shaking hands, I bent down and picked up every single bill. I stuffed it into my pocket, stood up straight, and walked out the door without another word.

I gave birth to my daughter alone in a county hospital. I named her Melody.

The moment she was in my arms, I felt a peace I hadn't felt in months. But it was short-lived.

Two hours later, Ethan walked into my hospital room with two police officers. He had a court order in his hand.

"Jennifer Johns," one of the officers said, "you're under arrest. Your house arrest has been revoked."

Ethan stepped forward and took Melody from my arms. "I'm her father. I'm taking custody," he said, not looking at me. "The court agrees you're an unfit mother. A convicted felon."

I screamed. I fought. But I was weak from childbirth, and they were strong. They dragged me out of the room, my arms empty, my heart shattering into a million pieces. The last thing I saw was Ethan holding my baby, my Melody, and walking away.