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.

Josephine Cole POV:

My hand shot out, swiping the vase of lilies off the bedside table. It shattered on the floor, water and broken glass spraying across the polished tiles.

"Get out," I rasped, my voice raw.

Jax froze, the new bouquet still in his hands. "Jo…"

"I said, get out!" I screamed, the sound tearing at my throat.

He slowly bent down, his brow furrowed, and began picking up the larger shards of glass. A sharp edge sliced his finger. A drop of red blood welled up on his skin. He stared at it for a moment, as if surprised.

I watched him, my heart a cold, dead stone in my chest. A year ago, I would have rushed to his side, would have cleaned the cut, bandaged his hand, kissed it better. Now, I felt nothing. Less than nothing. A complete and utter void.

His lack of a reaction from me seemed to unnerve him more than my screaming. He looked up, his eyes searching my face for a flicker of the old Josephine, the one who cared. He found nothing.

"Jo, we need to talk," he said, abandoning the broken glass and stepping closer to the bed. "The crash… it wasn' t my fault. The other driver ran a red light."

"I don' t care about the crash," I said, my voice flat.

"I know you' re upset about Brooklyn," he continued, steamrolling over me. "I was going to end it. I swear. It was just… a stupid mistake."

He tried to excuse his actions in the car. "Brooklyn was in the front, the impact was worse for her. She was screaming. I panicked. But I came back for you, Jo. I told them to help you."

He was spinning a new narrative, one where he was just a man who had made a logical choice in a moment of panic. He pulled a small box of macarons from his jacket pocket-my favorite, from the little bakery near our first apartment. He offered them to me, a pathetic peace offering.

"I brought you these," he said, his voice soft, coaxing.

I slapped his hand away. The box flew through the air, scattering the brightly colored pastries across the floor, where they lay like fallen jewels among the broken glass.

"Get. Out." Each word was a shard of ice.

The flicker of guilt in his eyes vanished, replaced by a familiar spark of anger. His patience, always thin, had run out. The performance was over.

"Fine," he snarled. "You want to be this way? Fine. But don' t forget who' s paying for this VIP suite, Josephine. Don' t forget who paid for every single one of Kiera' s medical bills for the last five years."

My blood ran cold. He was using my dead sister, using my grief, to threaten me. To control me.

"Get. Out." My voice didn' t waver.

He stared at me for a long, hard moment, his jaw tight. Then he turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the walls shuddered.

The moment the door closed, the strength I had been feigning deserted me. I collapsed back against the pillows, and the sobs I had been holding back finally broke free. I cried for Kiera. I cried for the woman I used to be. I cried for the love I had thought was real, a love that had turned out to be nothing more than a cruel and elaborate lie.

For the next two weeks, Jax played the part of the devoted husband for the hospital staff. He came every day, bringing flowers I hated and food I wouldn' t eat. And every day, I threw him out.

Our arguments grew more heated, his frustration mounting with each rejection. The nurses and doctors would watch with pitying eyes, whispering about the poor, heroic Mr. Richards and his ungrateful, hysterical wife. They didn' t see the man who threatened me with medical bills in private. They only saw the public performance.

I marked the days off on a mental calendar, counting down the seconds until I could leave. Until I could disappear.

On the day of my discharge, as I was packing my small bag, the door to my room opened. It wasn' t Jax.

It was Brooklyn.

She sauntered in, looking immaculate in a tight-fitting dress, her face perfectly made up. She looked me up and down, a smug smile playing on her lips.

"Wow," she said, her voice dripping with fake pity. "You look terrible. The accident really did a number on you."

She ran a hand through her perfect blonde hair. "But then again, you never were much to look at. I could never understand what Jax saw in you. You' re so… plain."

She walked closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You know, I can make him do anything I want. Anything. He bought me a penthouse last week. He' s taking me to Paris for my birthday. And the things he does for me in bed… well, you can probably imagine."

She leaned in, her perfume cloying and suffocating. "He loves me, Josephine. He was just with you out of habit. Pity, maybe."

From her designer handbag, she pulled out a small, tarnished silver locket. My blood froze. It was the locket my grandmother had given me, the one Brooklyn had stolen from my gym locker in tenth grade. The one I had cried over for weeks.

"Remember this?" she purred, dangling it in front of my face. "I' ve kept it all these years. A little reminder of how easy it is to take things from you."

My body began to tremble, the old, familiar terror wrapping its icy fingers around my heart. The room felt small, the air thin. The nightmares I thought I had buried were clawing their way back to the surface.

My eyes darted around the room, desperately looking for an escape. They landed on the fruit basket Jax had left, and the small, sharp knife nestled beside a pear.