"Elyn Hansley, you are under arrest for the death of your husband, Logan Hansley."
In the last three days, strange things have been happening to .
First, my distant husband agreed to take a short vacation abroad with .
Second, the mont we arrived at the hotel, he imdiately flew back ho without telling , like I was so forgotten errand.
Third, I got robbed right outside my hotel the very next morning. Thankfully, the thief only grabbed my secondary wallet and my phone.
But this...
This is the one thing I never expected to find on my bingo card.
One officer presents the warrant. Another snaps cold tal around my wrists. There are at least five more surrounding us. Massive, intimidating n who look like they should be raiding a syndicate warehouse, not apprehending a five-foot-sothing singer with a suitcase.
My mouth falls open. Shock freezes in place as they march out of the airport. I had planned to spend at least a week abroad, but I’d decided to cut the trip short.
Now, apparently, I’m cutting my freedom short too.
Caras flash like lightning. Reporters swarm, voices pelting with questions one after another. Stinging, relentless, like a swarm of bees.
My ears ring.
I expected the dia to show up, maybe throw the usual Where have you been hiding? but not this.
"Miss Elyn, did you poison your husband because he was cheating on you?"
"Was it for money? You’ll have access to his assets now that he’s gone."
"Who was he cheating with? Another celebrity?"
"What happens to your upcoming album? Is the release canceled?"
I can’t process half of it. My skin turns cold. By the ti I’m pushed into the police car, I’m shaking so hard my teeth nearly chatter.
Pri suspect for my husband’s death?
Logan is... dead?
He can’t be.
He can’t.
The words won’t sink in. They hover just outside my mind, unreal, ridiculous.
What kind of sick joke is this?
"Please," I manage, my voice barely steady. "Tell , officer. Who... died?"
Two officers sit in the front, and two flank on either side, making escape physically impossible.
Though even if they didn’t, they’re giving way too much credit. I’m not athletic enough to pull such a stunt. And definitely not stupid enough to trust my fragile body to survive the fall.
The officer in the passenger seat glances back at with an amused grin. "Ah, delicate ears, miss?"
He chuckles before continuing.
"Yes. Your husband. Businessman Logan Hansley was found dead in his townhouse early this morning. Cardiac arrest after taking antidepressants—or what should have been antidepressants. His bottle was filled with poison instead. Only your fingerprints and his were found on it. And," he adds casually, "there’s a chat history on his phone suggesting you two had a fight when he arrived back in the country two days ago."
A fight?
Us?
How? Logan and I barely saw each other long enough to exchange polite greetings, much less fight.
I swallow hard. "Is that the only evidence you have?"
I feel like my heart is trying to burst out of my chest. Confusion, anger, fear, they all collide so violently inside I can barely breathe.
"You’re accusing of killing my husband just because my fingerprints are on his bottle of dication?" My voice cracks, too thin to hold everything I’m feeling.
Logan and I were married for three years. We weren’t a storybook couple. We barely shared more than polite affection most days, but hearing he’s dead is still a blow that leaves cold.
He wasn’t exactly the love of my life... but he was soone I’d known for a long ti.
To learn he’s gone forever feels unreal. Impossible.
When the car pulls into the station, I spot Logan’s half-sister, Candice, waiting with her mother, Cora.
I barely have ti to step inside before Candice lunges.
The slap lands hard across my cheek.
Sharp, stinging, humiliating.
The pain snaps back into reality. This isn’t a nightmare. I’m awake. I’m here. And my life is shattering in real ti.
"How could you do this?!" she screams, and the sound ricochets in the crowded room. Reporters outside push against the officers forming a human barricade, trying to catch a glimpse of her fury. "How could you kill my brother?!"
I stand frozen, wrists still cuffed.
"You cheated on him, and he still forgave you!" she sobs. "Even when you were too busy with your career to be a decent wife, he supported you without a single complaint! But when he couldn’t give you what you wanted, you killed him!"
Dozens of eyes burn into . Judgntal, disgusted, triumphant.
My chest tightens until breathing feels like swallowing knives.
I want to defend myself. I want to scream that none of this makes sense. But my voice refuses to co out. I’m an artist, I’ve endured hate before, but this is different. This is a murder accusation, and we’re talking about a family’s death.
For a fleeting mont, a desperate instinct claws up my throat.
I want to beg the officers to let see Logan. Just to prove to myself he’s not dead. That this is all so twisted misunderstanding.
Because if I see him... if I see him lifeless... then all of this becos real, and there’s no waking up.
"Miss Candice," a reporter yells, straining against the officers. "What did she fight with your brother about? What did she want from him?"
Candice’s eyes blaze. "This bitch has been begging my brother to give her shares of the company! Behind that innocent face is pure greed. That’s who she really is!"
A lump rises in my throat. I want to deny it, but the words crumble before they leave . Even if I spoke, who here would believe ? Every face around is twisted with contempt.
"White Rose?" she scoffs loudly. "She doesn’t deserve that title. She’s not innocent, she’s wicked!"
The noise blurs. My head throbs. The room spins slightly, and I struggle to stay upright.
Candice keeps hurling insults, ugly, vicious words I never imagined hearing from her. After all, in the past three years, we were like sisters. She was sweet and kind, and we accompanied each other every now and then.
Or so I thought.
An officer finally pulls away from the chaos and leads to an interrogation room.
The days that follow move at a brutal, unforgiving pace.
I’m allowed to call my lawyer, but even he looks pale every ti we speak. Evidence keeps piling up like a mountain collapsing over my head.
The fingerprints on Logan’s dication bottle. The chat history suggesting a fight.
The identical poison pills supposedly found in my belongings. A witness claiming I bought them from him.
It feels orchestrated. Too precise. Too clean.
Everything points to , so neatly that it’s almost laughable if it weren’t destroying my life.
Logan and I were finally starting to get along better, and I was going to launch a new album. Things were going smoothly.
Why must everything fall apart like this?
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