Chapter 11: Veil of Lies

Captain Torres hustled Jaime down the dimly lit corridor, her body a canvas of filth—Reggie’s dried semen crusting her face, stomach, and breasts, a brittle residue of her violation. “Why couldn’t I shower first?” she asked, voice quaking, embarrassment and disgust a bitter tide she couldn’t stem.

Torres’s menacing grin gleamed in the shadows. “Your husband will not notice and does not need to know anything about Reggie,” he replied, his flawless English tinged with a faint Spanish accent, chilling her further with its cold precision.

He paused before the visitation room door, turning to her with deliberate calm. “Your cooperation has ensured the safety of both your husband and yourself, Señora Jordan. But if you mention Reggie to him now, it will ignite unnecessary tension—and he will suffer the consequences of your disobedience.”

“Anything about Reggie? You mean how you’ve let that vile, depraved sex offender violate me, you despicable monster?” Jaime spat, venom and shame scorching her words. “You imprisoned me with him, goaded him with this disgusting lingerie you force me to wear—made me his whore. And now you dare advise me about my husband? What concern is it of yours, you wretched excuse for a human?”

Torres fixed her with a steely gaze, voice low and measured. “Mrs. Jordan, let us be clear—Reggie forced himself on you initially, that is undeniable. I confess I compelled your ‘cooperation,’ promising it would shield you and your husband from the Lopez Cartel’s vengeance. But lately, I’ve observed you resist him less. You comply, however reluctantly. If you wish to keep your husband safe, devise a lie—claim that faint bruise on your face came from slipping in the shower. What purpose would it serve for Steve to know of Reggie? It would shatter him, picturing another man’s hands on you, forcing acts he cannot prevent. Can you fathom his torment? His jealousy would conjure vile, exaggerated scenes—perhaps worse than the reality. Sparing him the truth is a mercy.”

His stark warning hung heavy as he guided her into the visitation room. Steve sat at a metal table, orange uniform mirroring hers, hands cuffed, eyes anxious. Jaime felt the grime of Reggie’s touch—three times that morning, his massive loads leaving her soaked, one still oozing from her, drenching the skimpy thong Torres forced on her. Her skin crawled, dread spiking at the thought of Steve seeing her infidelity’s stain.

She shifted, thighs clamped tight to hide the slimy mix of Reggie’s semen and her own fluids, crusty remnants clinging to her body, his taste lingering in her mouth. Avoiding Steve’s gaze, shame and humiliation choked her—she, once pure, now a Black convict’s plaything. “Jaime, what happened to your face? It looks bruised,” Steve asked, concern etching his voice, yellowed marks from Reggie’s fists still visible.

A fresh bruise bloomed around Steve’s right eye, mirroring her own wounds. She inhaled sharply, dodging his look. “Just a clumsy accident,” she whispered, eyes on the table. “I slipped in the shower, hit the wall.” Torres’s warning echoed—truth would gut him. “What happened to your eye?”

Steve’s brows furrowed. “A guard ‘introduced’ himself. I’m starting to doubt Torres and his men are real authorities—maybe drug traffickers.”

Her heart thudded, dread coiling. Steve didn’t know the half of it—Torres’s cartel ties, his iron grip over this prison, her coerced compliance with Reggie to shield them. Had she faltered too much? “Oh no, are you okay?” she asked, guilt lacing her voice.