The worst Westbrook

NOLAN

I hate it here.

It smells like piss and rotten pizza in here.

I sat in the cell, the cold metal bench beneath me doing nothing to ease the chill that had settled deep in my bones. The low hum of the fluorescent lights buzzed in the background, adding to the oppressive atmosphere. My mind raced, replaying the events that had led me here, each scene flashing like a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from.

How did I end up like this? The world outside these bars was already judging me, painting me as a violent husband who turned abusive after catching his wife cheating. The media would have a field day with this—headlines screaming about the angry Westbrook who couldn’t handle his wife’s betrayal. I could already see the stories plastered on every screen, the smug faces of commentators discussing my supposed fall from grace.

But through all of it, there was one thought that gnawed at me more than anything else: What does Alanna think of me? Did she believe the lies? Did she think I was