Josephine Cole POV:

It wasn' t a one-time thing. The realization settled in my bones like a permanent chill. Jax prioritizing Brooklyn had become his new normal.

I remembered the charity auction two months ago. He' d dropped a million dollars on a diamond necklace for her, a bauble she flaunted on social media the next day. Meanwhile, the experimental treatment Kiera' s doctors had recommended, a treatment not fully covered by insurance, was a cost Jax had dismissed as "too risky an investment."

I remembered the land deal in Napa Valley. He' d walked away from a multi-million dollar profit because Brooklyn had casually mentioned she thought the rolling hills would be a perfect place for a vineyard one day, and she didn' t want it spoiled by a commercial development. He' d sacrificed his own company' s bottom line for her whim.

All the little cuts and slights I had ignored, explained away, now lined up like soldiers, pointing their bayonets directly at my heart.

I held a small, private service for Kiera. Just me and a few of her art school friends. We spread her ashes in the rose garden of the local conservatory, her favorite place. The air was sweet with the scent of blooming flowers, a sickening contrast to the bitter taste of grief in my mouth. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from a number I didn't recognize.

It was Jax.

"Jo, I' m so sorry. I just heard. My assistant didn' t tell me. I' m flying back now. We need to talk."

Just heard? My sister had been dead for a week. The news had been a small, tragic footnote in the local paper. He hadn' t heard because he hadn' t been looking. He hadn' t cared enough to check. The apology was a hollow, meaningless gesture, as empty as the promises he' d once made.

He called moments later. I let it ring, but he was persistent. Finally, I answered, my voice devoid of any emotion.

"What do you want, Jax?"

"Jo, baby, I' m so, so sorry about Kiera," he began, his voice thick with a performance of grief. "I can' t imagine what you' re going through."

"You can' t?" I asked, a cold, sharp laugh escaping my lips. "You were the one who diverted the helicopter, Jax. You made your choice."

"It wasn' t like that," he said, his voice instantly defensive. "Brooklyn' s dog, he… he was really sick. It was an emergency."

"He ate chocolate, Jax. My sister was dying." My voice was flat, each word a piece of sharpened ice. "Tell me, in what world is a dog' s stomachache a bigger emergency than a human heart failing?"

He stammered. "It… I didn' t think… Brooklyn was hysterical, she…"

And there it was again. That soft, cloying voice in the background, cooing his name. "Jax, honey, who are you talking to? Is everything okay?"

The sound of her was like gasoline on the embers of my rage.

"I have to go," I said, my voice shaking with fury.

"Jo, wait-"

I hung up. I wouldn' t listen to another second of his lies, not with her voice poisoning the air between us.

My hand went to the drawer in my desk. I pulled out a thick manila envelope. Inside were the divorce papers my lawyer had drawn up months ago, during a fleeting moment of clarity after I' d first suspected his affair. I' d never found the courage to sign them. I' d still loved him then. I' d still had hope.

Hope was a fool' s luxury.

I remembered sitting in his sleek office, the city lights twinkling below, when he' d first presented me with our "marriage license" years ago. He' d said it was a private ceremony, just for us, to keep things simple and out of the public eye while his business was in a delicate phase. I, stupid and trusting, had believed him. I' d signed where he told me to sign, my heart overflowing with love.

Now, my hand was steady as I uncapped a pen. The signature was sharp, angry. A definitive end.

I scanned the signed document and emailed it to my lawyer with a simple message: "File it. Immediately."

A few days later, I drove to the house. The castle he' d built for me. It wasn' t my home anymore. It was just a building filled with ghosts and broken promises. I only went back for one reason: Kiera' s paintings. She had stored her early work in the attic, and I couldn' t bear the thought of it being lost or thrown away.

I parked down the street, my heart pounding a nervous rhythm against my ribs. As I approached on foot, I saw his car, a low-slung, obscenely expensive sports car, parked in the driveway. My stomach twisted.

I slipped in through the back gate, using the key I still had. I just wanted to get Kiera' s things and leave without a confrontation. I crept around the side of the house, my footsteps silent on the manicured lawn.

Through the large glass doors of the living room, I saw them.

Jax had Brooklyn pressed against the wall, his hands tangled in her hair, his mouth devouring hers. It wasn' t a gentle kiss. It was hungry, possessive, brutal. The same way he used to kiss me.

A wave of bile rose in my throat. I ducked behind a large terracotta planter, my body trembling. The sight of them, in my home, in the space where I had mourned my sister, was a violation that went deeper than infidelity.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out the image.

When I opened them again, they were walking outside, toward the rose garden Kiera had helped me plant. Jax had his arm around Brooklyn, his posture protective, proprietary.

"It' s a beautiful property," Brooklyn said, her voice carrying on the still air. "But the house is a little dated, don' t you think?"

Jax chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "I was thinking the same thing. We' ll tear it down. Build something new, just for you."

Just for you. The same words he' d once said to me.

Brooklyn giggled and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him deeply. "Oh, Jax. You spoil me."

He was going to tear down our home. The home Kiera had loved, where her laughter still echoed in the hallways if I listened hard enough. He was going to erase every last trace of me, of us, of her.

My breath hitched. My only thought was of the paintings in the attic. Kiera' s soul, captured on canvas. I had to get them before he destroyed everything.

In my haste to push myself up from behind the planter, my knee scraped against the rough terracotta. The sound, a soft grating noise, was barely audible.

But it was enough.

A floorboard creaked under my foot. Both their heads snapped in my direction.

Josephine Cole POV:

Jax' s eyes locked onto mine. For a split second, I saw a flicker of something-panic, maybe even guilt-before his expression hardened into a mask of cold annoyance.

He gently pushed Brooklyn behind him, a protective gesture that felt like a slap in the face, and started walking toward me.

"Josephine," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "What are you doing here?"

He stopped a few feet away, his towering frame casting a long shadow over me. He looked me up and down, taking in my simple black dress, the dark circles under my eyes. A flicker of something that might have been pity crossed his face.

"Are you okay?" he asked, the question so absurdly false it made me want to scream.

He reached for my arm, but I flinched away as if his touch were fire. "Don' t touch me."

"Why are you here, Jo?" I asked, my voice a broken whisper that didn' t sound like my own. "In our home? With her?"

Brooklyn peeked out from behind him, her face a perfect picture of wide-eyed innocence. It was the same look she' d perfected in high school, right before she' d get me suspended for something she' d done.

"Oh, Josephine," she said, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. "I' m so sorry. Jax told me you two were having problems. I didn' t mean to intrude."

She stepped forward, placing a delicate hand on Jax' s arm. "Maybe I should go, Jax. This is clearly a bad time."

She was playing the victim, positioning me as the hysterical, intrusive ex-wife. It was a masterful performance.

"Stay right here, Brooklyn," Jax commanded, his eyes never leaving my face. He saw her as fragile, in need of his protection. He saw me as the threat.

"Don' t you dare speak to me, Brooklyn," I snapped, my gaze finally turning to her. The sight of her smug, beautiful face made my stomach churn.

Tears instantly welled in Brooklyn' s eyes. It was a talent she had, crying on command. "I… I was just trying to be nice," she whimpered, turning her face into Jax' s chest. "She' s scaring me, Jax."

"She' s right, Jax," Brooklyn sobbed, her voice muffled against his expensive shirt. "This is all my fault. If only Bartholomew hadn' t gotten sick… if the vet hadn' t insisted on the helicopter…" She was twisting the knife, reminding him, reminding me, of the choice he had made, but framing it as an unfortunate accident.

Jax' s arms tightened around her, his jaw set. He looked at me, his eyes filled with disappointment, as if I were the one being unreasonable. "Josephine, stop it. You' re upsetting her."

My heart, which I thought had already been shattered into a million pieces, broke all over again. He was defending her. He was defending the woman whose selfish whim had cost my sister her life.

My mind flashed back to high school. To Brooklyn and her friends cornering me in the locker room, holding me down while they cut off chunks of my hair with a pair of craft scissors. To them slipping a dead frog into my cello case, its guts smearing all over the polished wood I had saved for months to buy.

I remember running to Jax, who was a senior then, the terrifying, magnetic boy everyone was afraid of. I had shown him my ruined instrument, my butchered hair, tears streaming down my face.

He had held me, his hands surprisingly gentle, and promised, "I' ll make them pay, Jo. I swear. No one ever gets to hurt you again."

And now, here he was, holding that same girl in his arms, protecting her from me. The irony was so bitter it tasted like poison.

I must have been silent for too long, lost in the wreckage of the past, because Jax' s expression softened slightly. He took a step forward.

"Jo, let' s not do this here," he said, his voice dropping to the low, persuasive tone he used in boardrooms. "Get in the car. I' ll take you home."

"We are home," I said, the words hollow.

Brooklyn, ever the actress, wiped her fake tears and stepped toward me, her hand outstretched. "Josephine, let' s just put this all behind us. We can be friends…"

The thought of her hand touching me was so repulsive that I recoiled instinctively, pulling my arm back sharply. "Get away from me."

It was a small, defensive movement, but Brooklyn used it. She let out a theatrical gasp, stumbled backward, and collapsed onto the pristine lawn in a heap, as if I had shoved her with all my might.

"Ow!" she cried, cradling her ankle. "You pushed me!"

Jax was at her side in an instant, his face a mask of thunderous rage. He looked from her feigned tears to my stunned face, and his eyes hardened.

"What the hell did you do, Josephine?"

Josephine Cole POV:

"She' s hurt, Jax!" Brooklyn wailed, burying her face in his shoulder as he knelt beside her. "My ankle… I think it' s broken."

Jax shot me a look of pure fury. "Are you satisfied now, Josephine? Was this what you wanted?" he snarled, his voice dripping with accusation.

"I didn' t touch her!" I cried, my voice thin and reedy. "She fell on purpose!"

"It was an accident," Jax said, his tone dismissive as he gently examined Brooklyn' s perfectly fine ankle. "She lost her balance. You' ve been through a lot. Just calm down." He was excusing her behavior, infantilizing me, treating me like a hysterical child who couldn' t control her emotions.

A hot, acidic wave of nausea churned in my stomach. My head felt light, the world tilting on its axis.

"An accident?" I repeated, my voice trembling with a rage so profound it scared me. "Like diverting a medevac was an 'accident' ? Like my sister' s death was an 'accident' ?"

Brooklyn flinched, letting out another soft sob. "Please don' t talk about that," she whispered. "It makes me feel so guilty."

"Good," I spat. "You should."

I turned away from them, unable to look at their disgusting tableau of feigned innocence and misplaced loyalty a moment longer. My eyes fell on the scattered contents of my purse, which had spilled when I recoiled. Among the lipstick and keys lay a small, worn, leather-bound book. Kiera' s first sketchbook. It was filled with her childhood drawings of fantastical creatures and smiling suns. I had carried it with me since the funeral, a tangible piece of her I couldn' t bear to part with.

I bent down to pick it up, my fingers brushing against the soft, familiar leather.

A pristine, white designer heel slammed down onto the sketchbook, not two inches from my hand.

I looked up. Brooklyn was standing over me, a cruel, triumphant smirk on her face. She ground her heel into the book, the sound of the spine cracking and pages tearing echoing in the silent garden.

"Oops," she said, her voice a sickly sweet singsong. "Clumsy me."

Something inside me snapped. The grief, the betrayal, the years of repressed anger erupted in a single, blinding flash of white-hot fury. I lunged at her, my hands outstretched, my nails shaped into claws. "You bitch!"

Before I could reach her, an iron grip closed around my wrist. Jax yanked me back so hard I stumbled.

"That' s enough, Josephine!" he roared.

He didn' t see what she' d done. He only saw my attack. He shoved me away from her, a hard, violent push. I lost my footing and fell backward, my head cracking against the edge of the terracotta planter I had been hiding behind.

Pain exploded at the back of my skull. The world swam, black spots dancing in my vision. I lay on the grass, stunned and breathless, the coppery taste of blood filling my mouth.

"Look what you made me do," Jax said, his voice laced with frustration, as if my injury was an inconvenience he was being forced to deal with. He was looking down at me, but his concern was for Brooklyn, who was now clinging to his arm, looking terrified.

"It' s Kiera' s," I whispered, my voice thick with tears and pain. I pointed a shaking finger at the ruined sketchbook lying desecrated on the lawn. "That was Kiera' s first sketchbook."

Jax glanced at the book, his expression uncomprehending. "It' s just a book, Jo. I' ll buy you a new one. A hundred new ones."

He didn' t remember. He had been there when Kiera, age seven, had proudly presented it to me. He had watched her fill its pages. He had praised her drawings. But now, it was just a thing. An object whose value he could measure in dollars. All our shared memories, all the moments that had built the foundation of our life together, had been wiped clean from his mind, replaced by this vapid, cruel woman.

The fight drained out of me, replaced by a profound, soul-crushing exhaustion. There was no point in arguing. There was no point in explaining. He wouldn' t understand. He couldn' t.

Slowly, painfully, I pushed myself to my feet. I wouldn' t give them the satisfaction of seeing me broken on the ground. I turned to walk away, my only thought to get as far from them as possible.

"Where do you think you' re going?" Jax' s voice cut through the air. He grabbed my arm, his grip bruising. "You' re hurt. I' m taking you to the hospital."

"Let go of me," I said, my voice dangerously quiet.

"Get in the car, Josephine," he commanded.

He half-dragged, half-carried me to his car, forcing me into the backseat like a prisoner. Brooklyn slid into the passenger seat, shooting me a triumphant look in the rearview mirror as she buckled her seatbelt. The car was filled with the cloying, sweet scent of her perfume, a scent I knew would be forever linked to the worst moments of my life.

As the car pulled out of the driveway, I leaned my throbbing head against the cool glass of the window and closed my eyes.

My mind drifted to the months after Brooklyn had returned to the country. Her "accidental" encounters at my favorite cafes. Her joining my exclusive gym. Her buying the apartment directly across the hall from ours. It was a systematic, deliberate campaign to invade every corner of my life.

I remembered finding my prize-winning cello, the one I' d played at Carnegie Hall, with its strings slashed. There was no proof, but I knew it was her. I remembered telling Jax, my voice shaking with fear and outrage. He had promised to handle it, to keep her away from me.

And he had. He had kept her away from me by pulling her into his own bed. He didn' t solve the problem. He absorbed it. He became it.

The pain in my head was a dull, constant throb, a physical manifestation of the agony in my soul. I felt a tear escape the corner of my eye and trace a cold path down my temple.

The last thing I remember was the screech of tires and the sickening crunch of metal.

Then, everything went black.