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Chapter One
Sophia
Murderer
People accused me of being many things, but this one definitely sat on a level I never expected to achieve.
Troublemaker, reckless, disgrace, tabloid diva, even whore to the stars based on my most recent media scandal, but a cold-blooded killer, that was a new one.
A shiver ratcheted through my body, and I wrapped my arms around myself as I scooted onto my cot in my jail cell. A tear slipped down my cheek, and I closed my eyes for a brief second before leaning my head back on the cement block wall to look up at the grimy ceiling, which needed a coat of paint or three.
I wasn’t sure if it was fear or the rancid stench in the air from whatever fungated around me, but my stomach wanted to upend itself at any moment.
When the cops brought me in, they told me to get comfortable. Was that even possible when someone accused me of a murder I never committed?
Another wave of nausea hit me, and I immediately pushed it down as my eyes caught sight of the toilet in the corner.
I squeezed my arms around me tighter and drew my knees up, burying my face against them.
If I pretended this place was similar to some of the conditions so many other models and I endured during various shoots and fashion shows, I wouldn’t have to face the reality of my situation.
Hey, at least I had a toilet in the corner instead of a bucket like the one we used to pee in at the show in Death Valley. If the organizers could cart in facilities for all the A-listers, they could have brought in an extra one or two for the models showing off their designs.
What the hell was wrong with me? Jail and a model shoot weren’t even in the same league of comparison.
Closing my eyes, I inhaled a deep breath.
This is what I got for trying to make myself feel better.
I’d made so many dumb decisions over the years. Maybe that was the point of jail, to contemplate all of life's choices, good and bad.
The one thing I never regretted picking was fashion as a career choice. Yeah, it had its ups and downs. At this very moment, I lean toward the down.
But the industry taught me a self-confidence I wouldn’t have gained anywhere else.
Then again, maybe my attitude was why someone pinned this murder wrap on me.
I wouldn’t lie and say I never wanted Keith Gilbertson Randolph dead.
God, I’d fantasized about it. I’d dreamed of it.
I stared at my hands through a haze of unshed tears, clenching my fists open and shut. I’d created countless scenarios where I’d implemented gruesome acts of torture on that despicable excuse of a fashion designer.
But actually, going through with any of my ideas was impossible.
I wiped away the wetness from my cheeks and then swallowed any remaining tears burning the back of my throat.
I had to get myself together and think clearly.
First of all, I barely made up half of his body mass. There wasn’t any way possible for me to take him on, much less the three bodyguards he had with him at all times.
Second, how would I get close enough to kill him when he knew how much I hated his guts?
And lastly, only a loser copied a girl’s big brother’s signature means of revenge against an enemy. Even though no one could prove it, everyone knew the eldest of my brothers, Lucian Morelli, utilized elimination as a tactic against anyone who garnered his ire.
My methods fell in the range of public embarrassment. So they were illegal but not in any way on par with Big Brother.
A guard walked by, pausing outside of my cell.
