Tristan’s P.O.V

I sat on that cold prison bench with my head buried in my palms, and all I could think about was how pathetic I had become. I had scraped together every last dollar, every single coin left in my account, just to get myself out of this cell.

Bail.

The word tasted bitter on my tongue because it wasn’t freedom, not really—it was just a temporary escape, one that I bought with the last shred of dignity I had left. And as I waited for the paperwork, for the ...