Chapter Nineteen

The exit process was clinical and impersonal, a series of checkpoints manned by stone-faced officers who regarded him with the same disdain they showed every inmate. Milo felt like a specimen being poked and prodded, forced to strip naked for one final dehumanizing search. What did they think he was smuggling out? Drugs? Weren’t they cheaper on the outside?

His hands trembled as the prison guard handed him a bag containing his belongings from the outside world. His suit and watch felt foreign, like relics from a past life. He slipped the watch onto his wrist, grimacing at how loose it hung now after months of being underfed in this hellhole.

As he dressed in clothes that no longer quite fit, Milo’s gaze drifted to the barred windows. He would miss the view of the exercise yard, bizarre as that seemed. This place had reshaped him, made him into something new, whatever that was.

The door opened and Nurse Williams entered, her usual no-nonsense expression softening slightly. “I heard you’re shipping out today, Milo.”

Milo managed a small smile. Of all the people here, she had treated him with the most basic human decency. “Yes ma’am. Heading back to the real world, I suppose.”

Nurse Williams gave a curt nod. “Well, try to stay out of trouble this time. I don’t want to see you back here, understand?”

Her gruff words struck a surprising pang in Milo’s chest. He would miss her stern fairness, her glimpses of unexpected kindness. “I’ll try. Thank you…for everything.”

He stepped through the door into the foyer of the prison, marveling at the simple freedom of walking around unsupervised. No guards barking orders, no fear of attack from every angle. Just the echoing of his own footsteps on the polished concrete.

Serena was waiting for him, a picture of elegance in Vera Wang with her perfectly coiffed hair. She looked like she had just stepped out of a fashion magazine, not through the front door of a maximum-security prison. Milo felt a twinge of resentment at her put-together appearance. It felt callous, spitting in the face of the people who were incarcerated here.

But as she enveloped him in a hug, Milo felt some of the tension drain from his body. Serena’s familiar perfume, the softness of her Hermès scarf against his cheek—these were comforts he had been starved of for so long.

“Let’s get you out of here,” Serena murmured, guiding him towards the exit with a gentle hand on his back.

Milo nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Each step towards the door felt like a betrayal, like he was leaving a part of himself behind.

As they emerged into the bright sunlight, Milo was compelled to glance back at the looming concrete walls of Vanguard Penitentiary. Somewhere in there, Torres was locked in a cell, alone. The thought made Milo’s chest ache with a physical pain.

But he had to keep moving forward. He could come back and visit, could wait for Torres when he was released. Even though Torres had told him it was impossible, Milo was going to try. He had to. Anything else felt like giving up the only thing in his life that mattered.

There was a limo waiting. He climbed into the back, immediately feeling out of place in the plush interior. The scent of rich mahogany and expensive leather assaulted his senses, a far cry from the stale odors of the prison he had grown accustomed to. He ran his fingers along the buttery soft upholstery, marveling at how foreign these once familiar luxuries now felt.

Serena slid in beside him. She reached over and patted his hand reassuringly. “It’s all going to be okay now, Milo. You’re out, and that’s what matters.”

Her words were meant to soothe, but Milo couldn’t shake the nagging sense of unease that had taken root. “Has Dad managed to clean up the mess with the business?” he asked hesitantly. “The accounting irregularities and whatnot?”

Serena’s perfectly sculpted brows knitted together in a frown. “Shhh, you don’t need to worry about any of that anymore,” she chided, waving a delicate, ring-adorned hand. “Father has it all under control.”

But those were the same empty platitudes their father had fed him before everything went sideways. Milo had trusted him then, had believed his assurances that a few creative loopholes were just the cost of doing business. He had been naive, blind to the moral bankruptcy eroding the core of their family empire.

And that willful ignorance had cost him dearly—his reputation, his freedom, his very sense of who he was. Because the person who had let that happen to him had died in prison. Milo wasn’t him anymore. He was someone harder, more cynical, less willing to trust.

As the limo merged into the dense city traffic, Milo couldn’t resist glancing back at the imposing silhouette of the prison until it shrank from view. His chest constricted with a hollow ache, mourning the loss of the only thing that had made that place bearable.

Serena was talking. She seemed to be trying to fill him in on all the gossip he’d missed during his incarceration. She name-dropped socialites and celebrities, gushing about lavish parties and scandalous affairs. Milo found it all incredibly trivial compared to the life-and-death struggles he had witnessed in prison.

“Oh, and you’ll never guess who got engaged!” Serena exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Ethan Carlisle! He proposed to Olivia at the Met Gala, can you believe it?”

Milo’s jaw clenched, anger surging through him at the thought of his so-called friend. “Ethan didn’t visit me once in prison,” he said sharply, his voice laced with bitterness. “Some friend he turned out to be.”

Serena fell silent, her perfectly glossed lips pressing into a thin line. After a moment, she spoke softly, “Milo, it’s not fair to blame people for being afraid to visit a prison. It’s a scary place for most people.”

Milo heard the unspoken subtext in her words. Serena was making excuses for her own failure to visit him as well. He swallowed back his resentment, knowing that lashing out at her would accomplish nothing.

The limo turned onto a familiar street, the manicured lawns and sprawling mansions coming into view. Milo stared out the window as they pulled up to the opulent house he had grown up in, its Grecian columns and expansive grounds shocking to look at.

He couldn’t help thinking about how much it must have cost, the exorbitant price tag that came with maintaining such a lavish facade. It all seemed so hollow now, a superficial veneer.

Serena ushered him out of the limo and into the house, her heels clicking against the marble foyer. She guided him upstairs, encouraging him to take a long, hot shower and relax.

Milo stepped into his old room and stared at it.

There was his king-sized bed, draped in Egyptian cotton and flanked by mahogany nightstands. There were the paintings his mother had hung for him, in their gilded frames. Underfoot, the vast, plush carpet muted his hesitant steps. Every inch, untouched and pristine, echoed the life he’d left behind.

It felt like a foreign country.

He went into the bathroom, wincing at the opulence that surrounded him. The sleek, modern fixtures and imported Italian tiles seemed like heaven after the dingy, communal showers of the prison. He stripped off his clothes and stepped under the rainfall showerhead, letting the steaming water cascade over his body.

As he lathered himself with gardenia body wash, Milo’s thoughts drifted to Torres. He wondered what the other man would think of all this luxury, if he would appreciate the finer things in life or scoff at their extravagance.

Milo’s hand drifted lower, his fingers wrapping around his hardening length as he remembered the way Torres had made love to him the night before. The tenderness in his touch, the raw emotion in his eyes—it had felt like more than just a prison fling, more than two bodies seeking comfort in a harsh world.

I do love you, he thought, leaning against the tiles. He imagined Torres with him now, and the image was so painful he had to pull his hand away from his cock. He wanted Torres, not the memory of Torres.

He turned his face up into the water and let it wash away his emotions.

When he was done, he stepped out of the shower, the steam billowing around him as he reached for a plush towel. He dried himself slowly, savoring the softness of the fabric against his skin. Luxury, everywhere, and yet he felt so wretched.

He padded into his bedroom and opened the walk-in closet, staring at the rows of designer suits and expensive shoes. He selected a simple black turtleneck and slacks, dressing with care. The clothes felt alien on his body, too soft and well-tailored after months of wearing rough prison uniforms.

As he was fixing his hair, and lamenting how long and lank it was, there was a knock at the door. A maid he didn’t recognize poked her head in. “Mr. Mueller, your father requests your presence in his study,” she said, her voice carefully neutral.

He nodded, his stomach twisting with apprehension. He followed the maid down the hallway, waiting as she knocked on the heavy oak doors before opening them.

Milo stepped into his father’s study, looking it over with fresh eyes. The room was paneled in dark wood, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the walls. A massive mahogany desk dominated the space, its surface gleaming under the light of a crystal chandelier. His father sat behind the desk, a cigar clamped between his teeth as he pored over some papers.

Yes, the expensive version of the Warden’s office. Milo wondered if that was why he hated it.

Walter Mueller looked up at him, his eyes cold and assessing. “Sit,” he commanded, gesturing to one of the leather chairs in front of the desk.

Milo obeyed, sinking into the chair. The rich scent of his father’s cigar filled his nostrils, reminding him of countless lectures and scoldings he had received in this very room.

“I trust you’re settling back in,” Walter said, his tone dismissive. “Put that unpleasantness behind you. It’s time to move on.”

Milo bristled at his father’s casual attitude. “Unpleasantness? I was in prison, Dad. For months. Because of what this family did.”

Walter scoffed, tapping ash from his cigar into a crystal tray. “Don’t be dramatic, Milo. It was hardly Guantanamo. And need I remind you, it was this family’s influence and money that got you out early.”

Milo clenched his fists, struggling to keep his temper in check. You have no idea what it was like. “But why did I have to go to prison at all? For the illegal things that you and the company did?”

His father’s eyes narrowed, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. “Everything you have, Milo, is because of the Mueller family fortune. Your expensive education, your privileged lifestyle, the very clothes on your back—all of it comes from what this family has built.”

Milo nodded, his eyes downcast as he listened to his father’s stern lecture. He knew better than to argue, to challenge the iron will of Walter Mueller.

“I understand, Father,” he said softly. “I’ll do whatever you ask of me. I want to put this all behind me, to move on with my life.”

Walter leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Good. That’s what I like to hear. We’ll get you back on track, son. Back to the life you were meant to lead.”

Milo hesitated, gathering his courage. “There is one thing, Dad. My cellmate, Torres…he looked out for me in there. I was hoping I could go pick him up on his release day, just to thank him for everything he did for me.”

His father’s eyes hardened, his brow furrowing in displeasure. “Absolutely not,” he snapped, his voice like a whip crack in the quiet room. “I won’t have you associating with criminals, Milo. That part of your life is over.”

Milo’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with shock. “But Torres isn’t just some criminal, Dad! He was there for me when no one else was. He protected me, kept me from getting hurt or worse in that place.”

Walter slammed his hand down on the desk, making Milo flinch. “I said no, and that’s final. You’re not to have any contact with that man, or anyone else from that godforsaken place. Do you understand me?”

Milo felt like he had been slapped. His father’s refusal to let him see Torres, even just to visit him in prison, was like a physical blow. He opened his mouth to protest, to make his father see reason, but the words died on his lips.

He knew that look in his father’s eyes, that stubborn set to his jaw. There would be no changing his mind, no matter how passionately Milo pleaded his case. And he couldn’t risk revealing the depth of his feelings for Torres. His father would never understand, would never accept it. Bad enough that Milo was gay, but to carry on with a cartel killer would be beyond the pale.

“I…I understand,” Milo said finally, his voice hollow with defeat.

“All right,” his father said. His frown eased, though it did not soften. “Go and settle in. You’ve had a big day, and I’m sure you’re emotional. We can discuss your future another time.”

Dismissed, Milo returned to his room, his heart heavy. He paced the spacious bedroom, running his fingers along the spines of the books on his shelves, the smooth surface of his desk. It was all so familiar, yet so strange after the confines of his prison cell.

Restless, Milo went rambling through the house. He wandered through the sprawling rooms, reacquainting himself with the furnishings and priceless works of art. The gardens were wonderful. He stretched out his arms, breathing in fresh, damp air. Flowers and greenery. God, he’d missed them.

The other thing he’d missed was that cafe Serena and he had used to go to all the time as teenagers, the one with the petit fours. It occurred to him that there was no reason he couldn’t go there right now. He had his wallet back and everything.

He thought about having the car brought around, but then decided to walk. It would take half an hour but so what? He was outside, it was marvelous. He felt like he could run there.

But when he reached the front gate, he was stopped by the attendant. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mueller,” the man said apologetically, “but your father has given strict orders that you are not to leave the premises.”

Milo stared at him in disbelief. “What do you mean, I can’t leave? This is my home, isn’t it?”

The man shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, sir, but your father was very clear. You are to remain within the grounds until further notice.”

Milo felt a sinking sensation in his stomach. He retreated to his room, his mind racing. Not allowed out? This had to be because of what he’d said to his father about Torres.

Well, then he had to find a way to contact Torres, to let him know that he hadn’t forgotten about him. He sat down at his computer, intending to order some books and supplies to be sent to Torres in prison.

But when he input his card details, they were declined. He checked his accounts and found them frozen. All of them. Milo stared at the screen in growing horror as the reality of his situation sank in.

Despite the wealth and luxury surrounding him, despite the fact that he could have a gourmet meal brought to him whenever he wanted, Milo was as much a prisoner as he had been in Vanguard. His father controlled every aspect of his life, from his finances to his very freedom.

Milo put his face in his hands, despair washing over him. He had promised Torres that he would visit him. But now, trapped in this new prison, Milo was afraid he would never see Torres again.