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.

Josephine Cole POV:

The world returned in a violent, jarring crash. Metal shrieked against metal. Glass shattered. My body was thrown forward, then slammed back against the seat. My head, already injured, hit something hard-the side window, I think. A supernova of white-hot pain exploded behind my eyes.

For a moment, there was only a ringing in my ears and the smell of deployed airbags and something burning.

My first coherent thought, a stupid, ingrained instinct, was for him.

"Jax?" I croaked, my voice a ragged whisper. "Are you okay?"

From the front seat, I heard a groan. Not his.

"Jax! Baby! My face! Is my face okay?" Brooklyn' s voice, high and panicked.

Then Jax' s voice, thick with terror, but not for me. "Brooklyn! Brooklyn, are you hurt? Talk to me!"

He was unbuckling his seatbelt, scrambling over the center console to get to her. He cradled her face in his hands, his thumbs frantically wiping away a tiny trickle of blood from a small cut on her forehead.

"It' s just a scratch, baby, it' s just a scratch," he murmured, his voice frantic with relief. "You' re okay. You' re beautiful. You' re perfect."

Brooklyn let out a theatrical sob, leaning into his embrace. "I was so scared, Jax."

Pain, sharp and blinding, lanced through my head. I reached up to touch the back of my skull and my fingers came away wet and sticky with blood. A lot of blood. The side of my head had been laid open by the impact. Unlike Brooklyn, I hadn' t been protected by a doting lover. I had been thrown around the backseat like a rag doll.

Jax finally seemed to remember I was there. He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes widening for a fraction of a second as he took in the blood matting my hair and staining the pristine leather seats. A flicker of something-guilt, maybe-crossed his face.

But it was gone as quickly as it came.

Brooklyn whimpered again, a pathetic little sound, and his attention snapped back to her instantly. His face softened, his entire being focused on her minor injury.

The world outside the shattered windows was a cacophony of sirens and shouting. People were gathering, their faces pale and horrified in the flashing red and blue lights.

Jax fumbled with the mangled passenger door, kicking it open. "Someone help!" he roared to the gathering crowd. "Get her out! She' s hurt!"

He was pointing at Brooklyn.

My vision was starting to blur at the edges. A cold numbness was spreading through my limbs. I tried to call his name again, but my tongue felt thick and heavy in my mouth. My lips formed his name, a silent plea.

Look at me. Please. Help me.

He didn' t.

He carefully, tenderly, gathered Brooklyn into his arms. As he lifted her from the car, his eyes met mine through the space where the windshield used to be. For a single, horrifying moment, I saw his choice in his eyes. He saw me. He saw the blood. He saw that I was seriously injured.

And he turned away.

He carried Brooklyn toward the arriving paramedics, his back to me, leaving me alone in the wreckage.

The last thing I saw before I lost consciousness was his broad back, a solid wall between me and any hope of salvation. The last thing I heard was his voice, yelling for help.

For her.

My mind, in its final moments of clarity, dredged up a memory. Years ago, after he' d won a particularly brutal underground fight, I' d been stitching up a cut over his eye. He' d winced, and I' d kissed the wound gently. He' d caught my face in his hands and looked at me with an intensity that stole my breath. "I' ll never let anything happen to you, Jo," he' d vowed. "I' d die before I let anyone hurt you."

The bitter irony was the last thing I tasted before the darkness swallowed me whole.

I woke up to the smell of bleach and the soft, rhythmic beep of a machine. My head was swathed in bandages, and a dull, throbbing ache had settled deep in my skull.

A cheerful-looking nurse was checking my IV drip. "Oh, you' re awake!" she chirped. "You gave us all quite a scare."

She beamed at me. "Your husband is a true hero, you know. The way he rescued that other young lady from the car, and then insisted we take care of you first. He wouldn' t leave your side all night. He must love you very much."

My stomach turned. He' d constructed a narrative, a public performance of the loving, heroic husband.

"He just stepped out to get you some fresh flowers," the nurse continued, gesturing to a vase on the bedside table. It was filled with white lilies.

He knew I hated lilies. They were funereal. Kiera had been allergic to them.

"He' s a hero, alright," I said, my voice dripping with a sarcasm that was lost on the nurse.

"Oh, you have to see this!" she said, pulling out her phone. "It' s all over the news."

She showed me a video clip from a local news station. It showed Jax, his face smudged with dirt, his shirt torn, looking every bit the valiant survivor. The footage, shot by a bystander, showed him kicking open the car door and pulling Brooklyn out. The camera angle was strategic, making it look like he was braving flames to save her. Then, it cut to him directing paramedics toward the backseat, a look of anguish on his face. The voiceover praised the real estate mogul Jax Richards for his bravery in the aftermath of a horrific accident.

There was no mention of the fact that he had left me bleeding in the car. No mention of the fact that his "anguish" was a performance for the cameras that had arrived after he' d already secured his own safety and that of his mistress.

"He even paid to have you moved to our best VIP suite," the nurse gushed, oblivious to the storm raging inside me. "He said nothing was too good for his wife."

I laughed, a dry, brittle sound that turned into a cough. The laugh was for me, for my own stupidity. For ever believing that his grand gestures were a substitute for genuine love.

The love he was showing the world was a lie. A beautifully crafted, expensive lie.

The nurse, finally sensing the charged atmosphere, gave me a nervous smile and quickly excused herself.

The door opened moments later. It was Jax, holding a new, even larger bouquet of lilies. His face was a mask of weary concern. He looked like the worried husband he was pretending to be.

He didn't get the chance to speak.